The Pilot of Flight 403
by BobBQ
Summary: For one disgraced pilot, the collision of worlds brings a second chance. For one embittered soldier, it brings a new hope. For one scarred arms dealer, it brings a full workload.
1. Prologue

(Boilerplate legalese: _Blue Drop_ is a creation of Yoshitomi Akihito. _NG Evangelion_ is a creation of Anno Hideaki et al. Obviously I am neither.)

_The Pilot of Flight 403_

_Prologue_

_Layer Wars Soldiers' Memorial_

_Nagano, Japan, Third Universal Layer_

_July 6th, 2079_

The gravel path made a pleasant crunching noise under the old man's feet as he made his way under the cemetery gate. A springlike sun warmed his back, that fiery orb just beginning its descent, as a gentle breeze stirred his silvery hair. It was, all else considered, a good day for this sort of thing.

_It's been too long in any case,_ he reminded himself. _Six... No, seven years?_

The sprawling burial ground was largely deserted. He'd expected as much - this was neither a weekend nor a holiday - and so he could have his visit in peace and quiet, just as he liked. The grass had been mowed recently, the alternating stripes of a mechanical cutter's path plain to see. The man stood in contemplation for a few moments, looking over the long rows of white markers. Many were topped by crosses, some by crescents or six-pointed stars. Others ended in diamonds or shapes reminiscent of stylized flowers.

_'Beyond the crosses row on row' was it?_

Once upon a time it might have been that simple, but such a time had antedated his own. Satisfied by what he saw through the sturdy square frames of his glasses, he turned to the right and began to walk along the outside path.

_Yes, far too long. It's good to come back._

The part of the cemetery towards which he now ambled was a corner lot, full to capacity but with a space, almost a mock moat, separating it from the rest. He had hoped, long ago, to see an end to this silent segregation, but to no avail: it seemed a forgone eventuality that the invisible barrier would still be there the day he left this world for good. It was as he approached the quarter of interest that he perceived the presence of another visitor, a young woman in last year's casual clothes kneeling before a grave marker topped by a clenched fist. Her hair, tucked into a loose ponytail, was the color of snow. As the man placidly drew near, she looked up with a start. Her eyes were a clouded blue, a hue the man knew as well as he knew the wary expression on her delicate face.

''Sorry,'' he said softly. ''Didn't mean to surprise you.''

''It's fine,'' came the curt reply. ''I was just leaving.'' The stranger pushed herself onto her feet, seeming to care little about the grass stains on her knees. As she passed him, the man felt a recollection stir in the depths of his ancient memory banks. He glanced at the marker she had been contemplating, as humble up close as it was from afar: _HARRINGTON_ was the name engraved, _2010-2058_ the span of the lifetime. There was an epitaph as well: _SEMPER ADIVVO_, it read.

''Just a minute,'' he called. ''Are you...'' He indicated the marker. ''Are you a relative..?''

The woman's expression turned hostile. ''What?''

''Nothing, sorry.'' He offered a cautious shrug. ''For a moment I thought you looked like her, that's all.''

''You...'' The ice thawed just a little. ''You knew Harrington?''

''Not intimately, but yes.'' The man smiled nostalgically. ''I worked alongside her in California, during the war.. Now that I look back on it, I must have caused her a lot of trouble.''

''And her partner..?'' Suddenly the mood was warmer, less isolating. ''You knew her as well?''

''Of course,'' he chuckled. ''They were inseparable.'' He turned back to the row of graves, pointing out the one at the head of the next row: _RICHARDSON_, it read, giving the same dates and then, _SEMPER AMO_. ''Born, lived and died together. I never saw one without the other.''

''How did you come to know them?''

''That's a story in itself... But I should give my name, shouldn't I?'' He made an awkward little bow. ''I am Yanami Shouta. Nice to meet you.''

''Yanami? Wait... Not _the_ Yanami Shouta? Who won the first Pulitzer for Interplanetary Journalism?''

''I'm just a footnote now,'' said Shouta ruefully, ''and it wasn't a very good piece of journalism. I guess you would be the granddaughter of these two?''

''Yeah.'' It was clearly not something she took pride in. ''I'm Valentina Harrington. Sorry if I was, you know...''

Shouta nodded to himself. ''I knew they had a daughter, but I lost track of what happened to her after they passed away.''

''She married a third-layer Terran,'' said Valentina. ''And so here I am,'' she continued, voice turning bitter, ''just another bastard halfbreed looking for her roots.'' Shouta was trying to think of a sympathetic reply when the woman walked back to the graves, head down. ''Can you tell me anything more about my grandparents? I know they were gosta and that they fought with a PMC during the war, but that's about all. I still don't know where they actually worked, where their names came from or any of their personal details. I didn't even know where they were buried until a week ago.''

The man raised an eyebrow. ''Your parents haven't ever told you what they did, what they fought for?''

Valentina shook her head. ''I think they're ashamed of whatever it was.''

''They shouldn't be,'' Shouta replied firmly, ''but I can see why they would think like that. Old taboos die hard.''

''Especially when your ancestors were mass-produced suicide bombers, huh?''

''Yes.'' Shouta gazed out over the graves. ''I remember there was a lot of opposition to the idea of any being buried here, with other veterans of the war... It sounds as if things haven't changed much since I retired,'' he sighed and turned to the cemetery corner itself, where a cluster of statues were arranged. ''First time here?''

''Yes.''

''Well, then.'' Shouta began walking towards the statues. ''Come over here for a minute, would you?'' Valentina followed, and soon the two came to stand before the monuments. ''Now,'' the old man went on, ''take a good look at these.''

Valentina's eyes wandered over the nearest statue. It was life-size bronze on a marble base and depicted a short-haired young woman with her hands bound and a thick noose about her neck. Her face was one of defiance. _JIANG XUE_, read the plaque mounted at her feet, _1999-2018_. Under the numerals was a quotation: _''I'm not afraid to die, not if the one I love is spared betraying her people.''_

''Sorry,'' said Valentina. ''I've heard the name, but it doesn't really mean anything to me.''

''How about the next, then?''

The second statue was of another woman, older and taller, with a proud bearing. She wore what appeared to be a boiler suit, and tousled hair poked out from under a flat cap. In her hands was a detailed rendition of an old Terran weapon, a heavy thing with a long proboscis of a barrel. _AZANAEL_, the cast letters dutifully reported, _1966-2071_. Her epitaph read simply, _BONA FEMINA_.

''We learned about her in school, but why...'' The living woman looked to her companion for enlightenment. ''Why is there a monument to an Arume in this place?''

''The short answer is that it is here for the same reason as all the others, namely because the orthodox telling omits her greatest contributions. A certain person, however, felt her role should be acknowledged and had enough money and influence to put this up. The long answer is... Well, it's enough to make a big book out of. The story of your grandmothers, and indeed of this whole edifice, is the story of the war's third-layer Pacific front itself.''

''I've got time,'' Valentina answered promptly. ''I mean, if you don't mind talking about it.''

''You're sure? We could be here well into the night if we're not careful.''

''I'm not in a rush to go back.''

''Very well.'' Shouta sat on the grass before the statues. ''What you must understand - or perhaps you do already - is that the popular narrative of what we call the Second Layer War is, to put it politely, a politically correct one.'' He looked up at a passing cloud for a second or two. ''I can tell you the story as I witnessed it and as I learned it from those who experienced it firsthand, but I must warn you that it is not a happy story, a nice story or a satisfying story. It is definitely not a story that I think those who write the textbooks now would want you to hear... But beyond all that, it is a true story, a story I've wanted to tell for many years. There was a time when I'd gladly have given up a thousand medals to see it published, but... Well, never mind that.''

''All right,'' Valentina answered. ''Uh, one question first.''

''Yes?''

''Who paid for these? Who was it who wanted them remembered?''

''For all his efforts, his name appears on only the oldest of them.'' Shouta pointed to the largest of the works of bronze, set a little ways apart from the rest. ''Forgive me if a tired soul waits here.''

The big statue showed three men in battle gear, two carrying the third between them. Instead of a plaque, this one's text was inscribed directly on the base: _Dedicated to the members of B Company, Hong Kong Provisional Port Authority, for their selfless stand at Avondale, Arizona on the 28th of February, 2019. In fighting to the last and giving up their own lives to block an enemy force pursuing evacuating casualties, they went above and beyond the expectations of their employer, let alone the call of duty._ Below was a signature and date, ten years to the day after the event commemorated.

''No way...'' Valentina turned to Shouta for confirmation. ''Why would _he_ of all people sponsor this?''

''There was a time when I would have asked the same,'' said the ex-journalist quietly.

''And the statue itself... It's based on that famous photo, isn't it? The one they call this century's _Raising the Flag on Iwo Jima_?''

''Yes... A photo taken by my partner at the time, Ikari Shinji. That figures into the story as well, so come and get comfortable.''

''Okay.'' The woman sat cross-legged and waited expectantly.

Shouta took a minute to order his thoughts. ''It's hard to pick a good point to begin,'' said he at last. ''How well do you know your second and third-layer histories of the twentieth century?''

''Well enough, I guess... They're generally the same, unless the higher-ed flavors are also 'politically correct'.''

''Luckily for my throat, the Arume don't much care what's taught about the prewar period. If you at least payed attention in class, that should save me some hours of talking... As I was saying, even though the Arume started the conflict - as they did the First Layer War, when I was a child - the Second had roots deeper than just an alien invasion, so digressions are probably inevitable. I'll try to keep them relevant, I promise.''

''Go for it.''

''Let me see... I think the best place to start is with the incident which first brought the existence of the third universal layer to the attention of the Arume, the affair of the frigate _Narwhal_...''

As he spoke, long-dormant gears began to turn, shedding the rust of decades. Old skills sparked and sputtered to life, processing a lifetime of comedy and tragedy in equal measure. One subject was tabulated and compiled for smooth presentation, then another. Patterns were recognized, familiar faces appeared again and again. The past replayed itself: the coming of the Arume, the rise and fall of the Unified States, the birth of New Communism, the overthrow and resurrection of the Ibuki shogunate and - always somewhere in the background - the comings and goings of an arms dealer whose name graced but one pedestal amidst the whole compacted legacy of an era defined by his customers.

The old Shouta, that intrepid spirit displaced by the inexorable march of time, had resumed operation.


	2. In Medias Res

_Part 1: In Medias Res_

_Kobe, Japan_

_January 2nd, 2016_

''What's it like?''

''Eh?''

Kouzuki Yuko's blue eyes peered at Azanael intently. ''What does being fifty feel like?''

''Er...'' _How does one explain this to a five year old?_

The quinqugenarian was spared by the intervention of the girl's mother. ''Yuko-chan, you've got curry on your chin,'' Michiko admonished. ''And you,'' she added, turning to the child's other parent, ''what have I told you about working at the table?''

''Sorry,'' Tsubael muttered, still eating with one hand and typing on her Thinkpad with the other. ''Client's been after me for the better part of a week about this bug. I'm pretty sure the problem's in the Synapsys middleware, but they're not returning - ''

_''Tsubael.''_

''Hm..?''

''Have you forgotten what day it is?''

''No,'' the petite Arume assured her, still typing. ''I just need to get one more compile in before I give up.'' There was a frustrated sigh. ''Why do they even want i786 compatibility in the first place..?''

''Don't mind them.'' Kawashima Akane ran a hand through her unruly black hair. ''It's not normally this bad.''

''I see.'' Azanael returned to her rice and curry, finishing the mix absently. ''What about yourself? Anything interesting happen while I was away?''

''Business as usual, more or less... Oh, you remember Funatsumaru Hiroko? From our school?''

''I think so...'' The pilot recalled a rotund girl with compact glasses and an upbeat personality. ''Her family owned a fishing company, didn't they?''

Akane nodded. ''She called earlier. Apparently her sister's family is moving into these parts - she was wondering if Noriko could work here.''

''Noriko...'' Azanael's only distinct memories of Hiroko's niece were of a squalling toddler, years and years ago. ''She's in high school now?''

''Both of them,'' Akane corrected. ''Her and Nia.''

''Ah.'' _Born during that summer I spent in the brig. Was it really so many years ago?_

The chef indicated the bowls in the center of the round table. ''Want some more?''

''Thanks, but I'm full already.''

''That didn't take long.'' The boyish woman eyed Azanael speculatively. ''Now I know how you stay trim despite sitting in a cockpit all day.''

''Hey..!''

''I'm joking, I'm joking... But you'd better still have room for the cake - I worked extra hard on that!''

''Maybe in a little while,'' Azanael replied apologetically, sliding her chair back. ''Let me help you with these first.''

Akane followed suit as the pilot began gathering dishes. ''You don't have to - ''

''I don't mind.'' Tableware mustered, the elder of the two led the way into the apartment's compact kitchen. ''Really.''

''As you like.'' There was a muted clatter as the dishes were deposited in the sink. ''I'll wash, you rinse.''

''All right.''

Neither spoke as the sink was filled. ''So,'' Akane began at last, taking a sponge in hand, ''what do you think?''

''Hm..?''

''Of hiring Noriko.''

Azanael shrugged. ''It's up to you... I mean, I don't really know what the priorities of running a restaurant are these days.''

''Doesn't matter. The place breaks even as-is, but it's your capital that makes expansion possible. As my most reliable investor, you're entitled to have your opinion considered.''

''Oh... Uh, no objection.''

''Thanks.'' Akane gave one bowl a final scrub and passed it over. ''Maybe it doesn't look like it, but we really appreciate your efforts.''

''Mm.''

''I'm serious. Even with all four of us working, financial security isn't something we can take for granted.''

''I know - eh..?'' A muffled electronic chirping had sprung up in the breast pocket of the Arume's flight suit, an insistent noise demanding a response. ''Sorry,'' Azanael muttered, quickly wiping her hands on the ready towel and extracting an aging Nokia. ''I thought I'd turned it off.'' _Bip!_ ''Hello?''

The voice which came through was female, but with a falsely masculine tone. _''Have you ever had a dream, Azanael, that you were so sure was real? What if you were unable to wake from that dream? How would - ''_

Akane snatched the handset from its owner. ''Elaqebil,'' she growled, deftly manipulating it with soapy fingers, ''this is _not_ a good time.''

_''Kawashima? Oh, hey! So you two got together after all?''_

''Drop dead,'' the feisty woman retorted, raising an elbow to block Azanael's attempt at reclaiming the phone. ''Do you actually need something?''

_''I do. Can you put Azanael back on?''_

Akane returned the device grudgingly. ''All right,'' Azanael sighed. ''What is it?''

_''I need you to fly six people from Kobe to Magadan, and fast.''_

The pilot winced. A flight that far north, even in her courier jet, would keep her out until the middle of the night. ''Elaqebil, I'm not working today.''

_''Sorry, but you have to take this one - there's nobody else available. We've got mobilization orders and I'll formally deputize you if that's what it comes to. There's a master commander and a group commander here who aren't going to be happy if they're late... Look, if you help us out, I'll make sure you get overtime credit for it, all right?''_

Azanael couldn't have cared less about overtime, but no helping it: if impatient officers were involved, she'd have to report as demanded. ''I'll be there as soon as I can,'' she said resignedly. ''See you at the airport, I guess.''

_''We'll be waiting. 'Bye for now.''_

Akane tiredly shook her head. ''Guess I should put the cake back in the fridge and warm up the jeep, huh?''

''Don't trouble yourself.'' The Arume quickly checked her flight suit for errant stains and, finding none, made for the smaller of the two bedrooms. ''Just as well I didn't unpack yet.''

''You're coming back, aren't you?''

''I hope so.''

''It's probably just another kaijin outbreak or something, right?'' Akane drifted towards the angled stairs to the ground floor. ''Let the others know where we're going, okay?''

* * *

The persistent whisper of self-doubt had set in before Azanael closed the humble wooden door behind her. It hovered like an indecisive crow over a dying squirrel as she walked towards Akane's well-worn jeep, gravel faintly crunching under fading charcoal-tone boots. Nightfall had brought a chill with it, though not to nearly to the degree the Arume had experienced in her first few winters on this planet and not enough to make her want to put on an extra layer. _The one perk of the damage we did to the climate,_ she told herself with a twinge of bitterness: it wasn't what she could call a worthwhile sacrifice.

Akane's voice drifted around the corner. ''Coming?''

''Yes...'' As the pilot made her way along the side of the two-story combination eatery and residence, its lower floor dark and devoid of activity, to where the antiquated Ford sat quietly rumbling, she attuned her senses to the weather. The air was still and the cloud cover low, shining a sickly yellow where the lights of urban Kobe glowed to the east - what was left of Kobe, rather, plus the tentacles of new growth creeping inland.

''Oy..!''

The remaining distance to the jeep was traversed quickly. ''Everything okay?'' Akane inquired, a practiced hand engaging the clutch. ''You spaced out.''

''Too fond of the night air,'' Azanael replied sheepishly. ''Sorry.''

''Mm.'' The jeep pulled out onto the main road, thankfully clear of other traffic. ''You know,'' she mused, ''I'm thinking about repainting the place.''

''Eh?'' There was nothing wrong with the place's current appearance, Azanael thought. White with brown trim suited it just fine.

''Just to get some variety, you know? Suppose there are better uses for the money, though...''

Money. To think they had made it so far, to the point where this accidental family's greatest concern was funding instead of mere survival. On the face of it, things were good: Azanael was still a pilot, Akane and Micchi had realized their ambitions to cook and write, and even Tsubael had settled into her niche... And yet, whenever she stared into the mirror, Azanael could never shake the feeling that the face she saw was not a content one.

_Maybe I'm just paranoid._

* * *

''About time,'' Elaqebil said under her breath, moving her well-rounded frame aside.

''Got stuck in traffic,'' Azanael explained shortly, heading straight for the Artech-Lockmart jet as the hangar door banged shut behind her. The aircraft's white paint had an almost wet sheen under the blue-tinged white lights, weakly buzzing in their skeletal ceiling brackets. That meant the maintenance team had given the machine some care in her absence, saving her time. ''This everyone?''

''Yes.''

The pilot evaluated her six passengers, working from prior experience to determine the probable mood going forward. Three of them, including the master commander, were unknown to her and would have to be observed for future reference. Then there was Elaqebil herself: thorough technocrat of the forime management bureaucracy by day and hopelessly addicted consumer of forime pop culture - especially movies - by night. Her antics over the phone meant she'd just watched or read something new, and if Azanael wasn't careful she'd be talking about it for hours... Or perhaps about her reasons for dyeing her flowing hair green, which might well be worse.

The second familiar face was a group commander named Renaril, a slim woman with a ponytail who was presently going through the contents of a manila folder. She was a semi-regular with this particular air service, polite but uncommunicative. Rumor was that the young officer's career hopes had been frustrated by confinement to a stagnant, mundane administrative job, but she had always struck Azanael as being more lonely than ambitious. If left alone, she would cause no problems.

And lastly, there was the lone male in the entourage. Yoshimura Seiichi had never been especially high in Azanael's estimation: everything about him rubbed her the wrong way, from his perverted smartass attitude to the way he bleached his shaggy hair. He nevertheless thought of himself as a kindred spirit, though the Arume's frank opinion was that going from star of the Japanese resistance to a puppet government's office-bound pencil pusher - while allowed to retain his trademark trench coat and heavy boots, no less - was a less terrible fate than spending years scraping along on the fringes until being grudgingly hired into a peripheral employment. Hopefully Elaqebil would keep him in line.

''Sorry to - '' Azanael caught herself still speaking colloquial Arumic and was about to switch to Japanese when she remembered that Yoshimura knew her tongue. ''I'm very sorry to have kept you waiting,'' she went on, changing to the formal dialect as she pulled down the folding stairs into the fuselage. ''Please take your seats and we'll be departing as soon as possible.''

* * *

''I knew I could count on you.'' Elaqebil gave Azanael a pat on the shoulder as the others disembarked one mercifully tranquil journey later. ''We'll be able to catch the regular shuttle on the return trip, so don't worry about us.''

Azanael nodded, not pulling her eyes away from the jet's many blinking readouts. ''If you don't mind, I'd like to get back...''

''I know.'' The shorter Arume leaned around the back of Azanael's seat and quickly slipped something into her pocket. ''I'll make sure the department credits you for it... Oh,'' she added, obviously an afterthought, ''and happy birthday.''

And then she was gone. Azanael didn't need to look at her 'present' to know what it was: a packet of nanomachine capsules. Nanomachines which, when exposed to the DNA of an Arume and then introduced into a female body, induced pregnancy. Like every other Arume living, she owed her own existence to this technology. The unasked-for gift, however, merely reminded her that Elaqebil, whatever virtues she possessed aside, just didn't know when to cut loose from a lost cause. _Kawashima's strong and healthy,_ was the unspoken message. _This is a chance to do your part for our future!_

''Give it up,'' the pilot muttered, pulling the control yoke to the right. Magadan had nothing worth staying for: the sooner she was cleared to leave this subarctic gulag gateway, the better. ''This is Alpha-Alpha-Foxtrot-Golf-Four-Zero-Three requesting clearance...''

* * *

''I know it's annoying,'' Akane opined as she and Azanael crept back into the apartment hours later, ''but it _is_ her job. Besides, you always say she's harmless.''

''Meh...'' Azanael wasn't feeling very talkative: she, feeling guilty for making her Terran friend drive her back and forth three times in one day, had been focused on the details of the jeep's operation. Some day, she'd promised herself, she would make the time to learn it properly.

''Looks like the others are asleep,'' the cook reported. ''Want to swipe a slice of your hard-earned confection?''

''I won't sleep if I eat now,'' Azanael replied regretfully. ''I think I'd just like to go to bed.''

''A bed is fine, too.'' Akane led the way to the second bedroom and eased the door open. ''I've still got a spare toothbrush somewhere around here...''

As she fumbled about in the semi-dark, Azanael leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. _Elaqebil can keep her overtime credit,_ she thought with a touch of resentment. _All I wanted was to spend my birthday with the family I still have._

* * *

Akane was already in bed when Azanael returned from the bathroom, stretched out on the right side of the mattress in violet pajamas. ''All set?''

''Yes.''

''Your turn now.'' The chef covered her eyes.

''You don't have to do that,'' the Arume murmured, emptying her suit pockets and unzipping the garment. ''We're not interested in each other, so why worry?''

''Habit, I guess.'' Akane removed her hand while the pilot shrugged out of the suit and folded it. ''Have we really been doing this for fifteen years?''

''Yes.'' Azanael slipped under the covers, savoring the warmth. ''And thanks to you, the nightmares are just a memory now.''

''You're welcome.'' Akane yawned. ''Don't be surprised if I'm up early.''

* * *

Someone else was also thinking about a birthday, in a gloomy Hong Kong warehouse a world away. That is to say she was supposed to be sorting through a large stack of ratty papers by the glare of a halogen construction floodlight, but kept breaking away from the inane documents to glance wistfully at a plastic hologram photo which leaned against the ArmaLite magazine she used as a paperweight. She had made a wish, and it had not been granted.

_Tap-clank-tap-clank-tap-clank-tap-clank..._

The woman coiled like a spring and waited to see who approached, relaxing when the shape of a large man solidified out of the shadows. ''Should put a piece of rubber on the bottom of that,'' she suggested. ''You're not at all subtle.''

''Wasn't trying to be.'' The man _tap-clank_'ed his way over to a flat plastic crate and sat down, his left leg and the aluminum brace strapped to it stretched out before him. ''I finished with the desk,'' he said, the lamp highlighting the numerous scars on his face and arms. ''The maniac had a frag grenade rigged to the top drawer.''

''Find anything?''

''Nothing useful. If there's any paper trail left from his dealings with Tiller, it'll be in the stuff we pulled out of the safe... I did turn up a bunch of cash - counterfeit, I wouldn't doubt - four sandwich bags of some powdered narcotic and this.'' He produced a large revolver and laid it on the folding table beside the woman. ''JP Sauer Single Action Army. Got some rust spots, but nothing that can't be cleaned up.''

The woman gave it a short look and went back to her papers. ''Made in West Germany? It should be in a museum.''

''Should it?'' The man contemplated the warehouse ceiling. ''This is how we stay in business, after all. Nation-states come and go, but war is forever.''

''Mm.''

''You've got that picture out again. This was the big day?''

''Yeah...''

''Just keep your chin up,'' the man advised, ''and look forward to next time.''


	3. The Concerned Colonels' Club

_Part 2: The Concerned Colonels' Club_

_Tokyo-3, Ashigarashimo SAD, Japan_

_February 11th, 2016_

Shinano Haruna would be thirty-eight soon, and in all her career she had never seen a Japanese city so reduced to ruin by human devices, though the entrance to unfriendly territory was demarcated not so much by the piles of street-choking concrete rubble as by the bronzed Mongolian with the turnbolt Mauser who stood watch on a derelict window-washer's scaffold above. The rubble itself was no specialty to this quarter - the entire city was strewn with shattered cement, broken glass, burnt-out vehicles and, most worryingly, unexploded ordnance. Her personal culpability only added a bitter edge to that somber knowledge.

_Leave it to the refugees to find a way to live in the middle of all this,_ she thought. _Can't be much worse than their old home._

Since the Mongolian seemed content to unobtrusively observe from on high, Shinano carefully picked up her pace. There would be a reception committee forming ahead, she didn't doubt, or at least an interrogator or two. All this in lenience, no less - had she come in uniform, they would have barred her. Had she brought associates, even the mild-mannered Sergeant Tachibana, the ragtag masses in these parts would be greeting her with bayonets fixed. Such were the times.

''Stop! Stop there!''

Just the one interrogator, then. She was a scrawny woman approaching middle age, the inflection of her broken English hinting at a Philippine background. Shinano stood in silence as she drew near, taking in the detail of the grease-stained coveralls and the frayed canvas bag under the refugee's right arm. ''What you want?'' the woman asked at last.

''I want no trouble.'' Shinano weighed her own words carefully, keenly aware of the need to convey her meaning unambiguously without sounding patronizing or contemptuous. ''I want to talk to Wakamiya-san, that is all.''

''Wakamiya is busy,'' the woman shrugged, ''but visitors always welcome, he say, so come on.'' So saying, she turned about and began to retrace her course with heightened energy. Shinano followed, matching the other's steps as she weaved between gnarly rebar stumps and piles of twisted scrap dragged aside to make the street pedestrian-passable. At the next corner sat a tank, a squat black Mitsubishi with a lightning bolt emblem on its side and a jagged hole in the frontal armor where another tank had decisively proven it obsolete. The refugees had stripped the wreck of everything usable, deploying its electronics and secondary armaments elsewhere. Past the tank, Shinano's guide took a left. This had been a commercial area once, lined with shops and service venues. Most of the former establishments' signs remained in their places, over doors and in the occasional surviving window, but the proprietors had all fled or folded.

_Rrrip!_

The refugee let out a yelp as the aft seam of her bag let go. Her arm clamped down on it, not quite in the nick of time: one of the items inside fell out and came to rest at Shinano's feet, a round steel can coated in scuffed and chipped charcoal-tone paint. The end of a cartridge belt hung from a slot in the top like a grim parody of the movie reels of old. _Ammunition for a Degtyarov machine gun,_ Shinano noted, turning it over in her hands. The rounds in the belt bore a Russian commercial headstamp, their gray-green protective lacquer fresh and unblemished. _That's interesting._ ''Here,'' she said aloud, handing the can back.

Her companion merely stuffed it into the bag, rearranged said bag and resumed her walk, leaving Shinano to file the incident away and resume her own campaign of subtle observation along the length of the next street and a half. The action was mutual - she could feel suspicious eyes on her back the entire time. The surveillance abated once the visitor and her companion turned onto a narrower side street, eventually coming to the premises of a onetime ramen vendor. ''In there,'' said the refugee curtly, and departed without more ado.

Slightly nonplussed, Shinano approached the bullet-pocked counter. ''Wakamiya-san..?''

''Be there in a moment.'' There came a shuffling and then Wakamiya Hideo appeared, a weary silver-haired man dressed in the robe and cap of a Shinto priest. ''Pardon my other visitor,'' he continued as Katsuragi Misato joined him at the counter.

Both looked surprised to see the newcomer in a way which didn't readily make sense to Shinano: she had met the old man and the vivacious Nerv operations director before, so surely her towering height or her aggressive bristle of close-cropped brown hair weren't to blame. ''Er... Is this a bad time?''

''No worse than most,'' the priest replied gravely, setting his elbows on the countertop. ''So what brings Colonel Shinano of the Strategic Self-Defense Forces all the way out here?''

''And in civilian dress, even,'' Katsuragi chimed in, throwing a speculative look at Shinano's ill-fitting shorts and sleeveless top. ''Not following orders today?''

The insinuation wasn't lost on the soldier. ''I have the day off,'' she explained, trying not to grind her teeth. ''I thought the least I could do is spend some time with Itsuki. Is he around?''

''He's at school.'' Wakamiya's expression softened, as if he had been bracing himself for some more serious matter. ''I don't expect he'll want to see you, though.''

''He never will, if I don't try,'' Shinano answered determinedly.

* * *

''So,'' Katsuragi inquired as she and Shinano left the refugee perimeter behind them, ''how are things in Atsugi?''

''The same as before.'' This was the convention which had been established between the two, of preventing a repeat of the city's destruction through informal chatter and mutual leaks of minor intelligence. It did more to shore up trust than the hot air of a hundred official meetings. ''The rain of LCL brought my troops back to life, but not my tanks or my jets. There aren't even enough small arms to go around now.''

''Tokyo-Two isn't taking any chances with the SSDF,'' Misato concurred. ''It's been, what, six weeks now since Third Impact?''

''Yes,'' Shinano agreed sourly. ''Seele collapsed and took the UN with it, the world's turned into one great standoff and now we're a scapegoat for the bureaucrats to wrangle over. The left can't get enough votes to prosecute us and the right can't get enough to reinstate us - what are we supposed to do, get down on our knees and beg forgiveness for being the puppets of puppets?''

''All any of us can do is look after our dependents, I suppose... And try to keep up to date with things happening elsewhere. Maybe Nerv isn't much better off - we've been put to work chasing UFOs.''

''UFOs... Oh, you mean the epidemic of radar anomalies?''

''Yes... Just a token job to make us look useful, I'm sure.''

''Until the city is cleaned up and the civilians come back, you mean.'' Shinano looked for a sign of confirmation, which was not long in arriving. ''What about the refugees?''

''Tokyo-Two would have us pack them back off to the Limited-Intervention Zone,'' Katsuragi sighed, ''but we made a deal and we're going to abide by it so long as the refugees don't cause trouble... Not that we could really expel them by force if we wanted to.''

''I would think not,'' Shinano replied gravely. ''The militia back there has its magazines well topped-off... You know, that man at the last checkpoint had an impressive night sight on his Kalashnikov - think they'd sell us any?''

''Your budget's been cut that much?'' When the other nodded, Misato shook her head. ''What do you make of the government situation?''

''As one colonel to another?'' Shinano asked. ''Oh, congratulations on the promotion, by the way.''

''I'm regretting it already,'' the younger woman said ruefully. ''Whatever you have, I suppose.''

''I heard the Ibuki family have gotten the support of that pretender to the imperial throne, whatever his name is.'' Shinano paused to watch an errant bird pass over, silhouetted against the clear afternoon sky. ''I can't say I'm reassured by it.''

Misato frowned. ''I think I'm more worried about the support they already have from the Great Sun Society. The situation would be delicate enough without that gang running unchecked.''

''Agreed.'' Shinano shook her head at the memories. ''If it's any consolation, the political fringe-clingers have turned against us as well. In their eyes my refusal to give support when they attacked that refugee convoy in Hiratsuka makes us traitors to the fatherland, never mind our standing orders, the rules of engagement and the risk of provoking foreign intervention...''

''Really?'' Misato let out a whistle. ''They're not satisfied even though you ultimately wound up fighting the refugees, the Russians and Chinese, and ourselves all at the same time?''

''And lost,'' Shinano pointed out. ''A good thing in retrospect, I won't deny, but...'' There was an exasperated sigh. ''They should have known better. _We_ should have known better.''

''And now the Society is trying to find a legal representative of the refugees so that they can sue for the worth of all the weapons they lost in the attack, never mind that those weapons were illegally procured and held to begin with.''

''Yes...''

The Nerv officer thankfully picked up on Shinano's discomfort at recalling the circumstances of her failure and changed the subject. ''Speaking of the Chinese, Kan Li was here on Monday.''

''Colonel Kang?'' Shinano echoed, her pronunciation the better. ''I heard she'd lost her bodyguard posting under Ambassador Zheng, but I don't have the details.''

''Apparently it was a rejected love,'' Misato said. ''She was always devoted to his daughter, but I guess she went a little too far.''

''Ah.'' The SSDF woman took a second to digest the news. ''That kind of love, huh?''

''Don't see why he was so upset,'' Misato continued. ''I mean, we have people here who are like that. People grumble and say it's immature, of course, but they're upstanding employees.''

''I'm sure.'' Shinano considered it a little more. ''Wouldn't have expected this from Colonel Vinegar, though. I have a feeling Zheng has been looking for an excuse to get rid of her ever since that Hong Kong incident.''

''The kidnapping in December, you mean.'' Misato weaved to pass an uncleared outcropping of fallen wall. ''Because she slipped up in the first place, I wonder, or because she took the initiative to get the girl back?''

''Who knows?'' Shinano stretched her arms. ''Either way, that can't be her only worry. Look at the state China's in, nearly coming apart at the joints. Russia and the EU aren't far behind, and even the United States is starting to boil over... Thirteen years of relative peace and the unifying effect of the Angel threat made us complacent, but today we're sending the architects of that peace to the cell and the scaffold as fast as we can catch them. We've woken up from the dream.''

''I'm wishing I were asleep again,'' her companion opined. ''Even if it was a peace arranged by men who wanted it only so they could destroy us all at their leisure, I felt like I had a _purpose_ then. I felt like I was doing something that really counted, you know?''

''I know the sentiment, but...'' Shinano stopped walking as the two came to a parking lot which played host to the decaying hull of a Russian gunship, another casualty of the fight which had scarred Tokyo-3. ''I wouldn't go back to that life, back to being someone who could - someone who _did_ kill indiscriminately, without ever asking myself why... I wouldn't go back for anything.''

''Itsuki-kun's really changed you,'' Misato remarked. ''Even if he resists changing himself.''

''Mm.'' Shinano turned away from the derelict helicopter. ''How much further?''

''Right, sorry - just another five minutes or so.''

* * *

The municipal junior high school was still open despite the widespread damage, a feat which slightly impressed Shinano. The facility itself struck her as depressingly bland, though it had perhaps looked better before the grounds were plowed and puckered by malfunctioning munitions. _Our munitions,_ she remembered. _So much for first-rate fuzing!_

''Over here,'' Misato prompted, leading the way towards the back of the grounds. The path twisted and turned, carrying the duo past a mixed group of students attending an open-air lecture on the English language by a distinguished Anglo-African. From there, the trek brought them to a pool and then a basketball court, the latter's hoops looking very much worse for wear. Around the sides of the court stood a loose assembly of students, their faces turned to the center.

Shinano glimpsed the tip of a wooden training sword on the upswing and heard the muted click of a camera shutter. _So they're both here,_ she realized. _Friends, or..?_ Still following Katsuragi, she edged into a gap and watched in silence as the two boys in the middle finished their routines.

''...Kaze-kun, hold that pose a second.'' _Click._ ''Okay...'' When Ikari Shinji had last crossed Shinano's path a month ago, her frank evaluation had been that the onetime Evangelion pilot was at high risk of developing a post-traumatic stress disorder. He seemed healthier now, risks of a lingering, lurking instability aside - had he picked up the pocket Casio and developed an interest, or had someone given it to him as a distraction? Perhaps it made no difference. ''Can you do that sideways thrust you showed us a minute ago? ...Don't hold this one, just act - act natural.'' _Click._

''Ara,'' Shinano's escort interjected. ''Not photographing the pretty girls, Shinji-kun?''

''Wha..? Misato-san, what are you saying?''

Shinano squinted. _Flushed cheeks, verbal stammer? Stiffen that lip, boy._

''Don't be a prude, now. Are you a boy or aren't you?''

''Misato-san, please...'' Shinji's voice trailed off. ''Oh, Shinano-san... Er...''

The boy with the wooden sword turned around, the sleeves and legs of his baggy, archaic garb billowing. His eyes, fixing on the soldier, narrowed to slits.

The colonel took a deep breath. ''Hello, Itsuki.''

Itsuki said nothing. He couldn't or wouldn't speak, instead conveying his thoughts through looks, gestures and sometimes scribbled notes. He needed no note to express himself here, however: _what do you want, enemy?_

Shinano Haruna would be thirty-eight soon, and in all her career she had never spared more than an occasional perfunctory letter to the child she had cast aside for the sake of her military duties. From the day she'd dropped out of university to enlist to the day she'd led her regiment into Tokyo-3 intent on wiping out Nerv, she'd always placed loyalty to state above loyalty to kin. Over the years, she had convinced herself that one day she would come back and find her son grown up into a man fit to carry on where she left off - brave, strong, noble and dedicated to Japan. It was a half-realized dream at best: even as a teenager Shinano Itsuki already exemplified the first three of the coveted attributes, but Japan could sink for all Wakamiya Kamikaze - his preferred name now, bestowed by the refugees who had adopted him - cared. His allegiance was with that society of outcasts and misfits, not with the worthless cousin his mother had entrusted him to and definitely not with any vague, arbitrary Japanese nation.

And so it was that the elder Shinano, a member of the Strategic Self-Defense Forces since its inception, had come back into the world six weeks before the present day full of bitter understanding, crawling out of a puddle of orange slime bearing cruel knowledge of death, of duty and of an alienated son who could see her only as the personification of his most hated foe. Against all odds her truce with Nerv and the refugees was holding fast and her command posting was momentarily secure - the hardest battle ahead was the personal one.

Misato, for her part, was also thinking of the past. There had been a plan once, a strategy for dealing with the relentless attacks of the Angels, and Seele's multifaceted scenarios coming from above, but it all came apart somewhere along the route. No plan survives contact with the other side, the old saying warned, but she appreciated now that the same went for contact with interloping third parties. Third Impact, Seele's fall, the new global crisis... None of it was according to any plan she knew. From the arrival of Eva-03 three months ago right up to the present, all had been as strangers directed it - strangers manipulating Nerv and Seele both in a war at once loftily abstract and bitterly personal. Seele had been sacrificed, Nerv saved: one stranger left dead, the other missing. It barely made sense.

Something Kang Li had said in passing on her way to the waiting aircraft, about those on whom responsibility for order and stability now fell, came to mind: _''They're already old, it doesn't matter to them any more.''_

Misato thought it might be a quotation, but couldn't recall the source.


	4. All in a Lifetime

_Part 3: All in a Lifetime_

_Naha, Okinawa_

_March 6th, 2016_

''Why'd you come out here?'' The speaker's voice no longer had the contemptuous, impatient tone which Shouta remembered so well. Instead it just sounded weary. ''If you're hoping I have some kind of miracle cure for your friend or that I'll apologize for obeying orders, you're wasting your time. I've put our old affair well behind me.''

''Kenzou-kun doesn't need your help,'' Shouta replied quietly, his glasses flashing in the afternoon sun. ''And if you thought I just wanted to dig up the past, why did you agree to meet me?''

Razael took a half-hearted slurp from the coffee cup on the table, her sky-colored eyes gazing out over the flat expanse of the East China Sea below the cafe as a stiff breeze tugged at strawlike hair. ''...It's not like I had anything better to do,'' she said grudgingly. ''What _do_ you want?''

''Only to hear your story.''

''Eh..?''

''It's true,'' Shouta mused, guessing at the Arume's unspoken thoughts. ''Maybe I should hate you for turning my best friend into a woman and - and everything else. Maybe I should be angry that you were allowed to walk free when it all ended... But when I think about what happened seven years ago, I always come back to the same conclusion.'' He ran a hand over his close-cut black hair. ''The Arume are here to stay. If we don't try to understand them, even a little, these things will just keep happening to us... I suppose this sounds silly to you.''

''I've seen worse ideas on the papers I grade,'' Razael answered wryly. ''I don't see how trying to understand me would do you any good, Yanami Shouta.''

''It doesn't, really.'' The young man shrugged. ''Call it personal curiosity and, well... I guess it'll be practice for me, if nothing else. I'm studying journalism, you see. Collecting stories. Maybe someday I'll be able to help others understand.''

''I do see.'' _Slurp!_ ''Journalism, huh? And now your old nemesis spends her days teaching genetics... A lot has changed since I last saw you.''

Shouta nodded his agreement. ''Why teaching?''

''It was my first career... And the worst Mariel could inflict on me without the council vetoing her decision, probably.'' Razael set the cup down. ''Though I suppose she was being lenient in her own way, sending me here.''

''Lenient?''

''She knows I like this environment.'' The woman made a broad sweeping motion with her hand. ''Sea and sun. It settles my nerves.''

''Oh...''

''So? Where do you want me to start?''

Shouta blinked. ''You'll do it? You don't mind talking about yourself?''

''I just said as much.'' A hint of the old impatience surfaced. ''Hurry up. I can't stand people who avoid the point.''

The prospective interviewer wasted no more time. ''Start from the beginning, please.''

''The beginning?'' Razael thought for a few moments. ''I was born in Austria in 1975 to a pair of agricultural engineers of no particular distinction. My childhood and adolescence were entirely ordinary. I attended technical school at... Innsbruck, you would call it, until 1999. My preliminary qualification thesis was on the state of pre-invasion forime cloning technology - something do with sheep, as I recall. After leaving school, I worked as an assistant instructor for three years, received my final qualification and was given the post of project leader for a series of experiments relating to Arume-forime gene compatibility, during which I met you.'' The scientist sat back in her chair. ''That's my life.''

''Ah...''

''Do you understand me now?''

Shouta didn't quite succeed in masking his disappointment. ''...No.''

''I didn't think so.'' _Slurp!_ ''Want some advice?''

''Please.''

''Find a sympathetic anthropologist. It seems to me that you need cultural context, not biography, and I'm hardly the best source for that.''

''I think I understand.'' Shouta fumbled for words. ''Er...''

''Spit it out,'' Razael sighed. ''I'm already here, so you might as well ask whatever you planned to.''

''Well... To start, what does the word 'Arume' actually mean?''

''Ah.'' This appeared to be a more comfortable topic for the alien. ''The word itself is archaic now, but in an extinct branch of our language it was a feminine adjective derived from the word for 'water'... Translating it as 'daughters of the sea' is perhaps a little too poetic, but it approximates the connotation.''

''The sea,'' Shouta echoed. ''Because of your eyes?''

''Not directly,'' Razael corrected. ''Some like to think of it that way as a rebuttal to being called 'sky eyes' by forime, but its origin is rather less... aesthetic.''

''Its origin?''

''I assume you don't know the story of how we came to exist.'' The Arume's brow wrinkled for a moment. ''I may as well tell you the basic facts - if you really want to understand us, you'll have to learn this sooner or later.''

''I'd appreciate it,'' Shouta replied earnestly. ''If it won't cause trouble for you, I mean.''

''It's not restricted information, though it isn't widely circulated... A long time ago,'' Razael began, ''our world looked much like this one. It was inhabited by a species genetically indistinguishable from your own, but which reached its industrial revolution far earlier. By that era, however, our predecessors were already experiencing the biological crisis which ultimately brought us here... Their science was unable to produce a viable, long-term cure for the problem - in time they came to realize that a partial solution could be made with nanotechnology, but application on the scale required prompted fears of what forime would call... 'gray goo', if I remember rightly. You know this expression?''

''Yes.''

''The scientists understood that the new method of artificial reproduction they had devised would only save, in effect, half their race, but they deemed it better than total extinction... And so the women who would become the first Arume were screened, selected and banished.''

''Banished..?''

''To a complex specially constructed far out to sea, where they were to live until it was certain that the nanomachines were safe. Apparently this complex was rigged with thermonuclear explosives as a crude form of emergency insurance... The initial group was a few hundred candidates in size.'' Razael finished her coffee before resuming the narrative. ''As things turned out, the architects' fears of failure were mercifully exaggerated. The experiment succeeded, though not before the gene pool had been drastically shrunk thanks to factions fighting over the last few men. Over the next few hundred years, those genetic lineages which survived were incorporated into the Arume or went extinct... I believe you know how we progressed from there.''

''Yes...''

''When those first candidates were released from confinement, their appearance alienated even their friends and families. They were regarded by many as a race born anew between the wind and waves, and thus they were called the ocean's daughters... 'Arume'. Does that answer your question?''

Shouta nodded emphatically. ''It must have been a frightening time to be alive.''

''It probably was.''

''Even still...'' Shouta's voice trailed away as he turned his head to watch a pair of men in military gear walking along the shore: patrols on the lookout for kaijin, the universally feared seaborne bioweapons. ''Why did it have to come to this? Why invasion and conquest, why so much destruction?''

''That's not something I can give a simple answer for.''

''I see.''

There was an uncomfortable silence.

''Yanami Shouta.''

''Yes..?''

''What if I told you it was going to happen all over again?''

* * *

_Some Other Planet_

_The Same Day_

Chief Inspector Harold Zhenyuan of the Hong Kong Police was not having a good day. He had risen in the morning to discover that his bald spot was getting bigger, spent his breakfast hour administering last rites to his faithful toaster of twenty-one years and came to work just in time to fend off some loon who claimed to have been abducted by 'Nordic alien women looking for a cyclops'. Now he was working from an undisclosed - and dark and damp - location, meeting an informant named Lai. Zhenyuan didn't much like Lai: he was one of those people whose face at thirty was so generic it could convincingly pass for anything ten years in either direction.

''...As soon as the call came in,'' Lai was saying, ''Huey packed a suitcase, collared his top men and a bunch of thugs and flew home.''

''And he didn't tell you why.''

''Not me, not any of the syndicate people I work around. Just up and left California without a word.'' Lai dug a wrinkled pack of cigarettes out of his jacket. ''You mind if I..?''

Zhenyuan did mind. ''Not in here,'' he said firmly.

''Okay.'' The pack vanished. ''So what did the kingpin get in such a fuss over? Is this still part of our northern industries insider case? Somebody smuggling factory-new ordnance through the city?''

''It seems to be.''

''Aha.'' Lai snapped his fingers. ''A tip about who killed his brother, the middleman. How about that?''

''Perhaps,'' said Zhenyuan noncommittally. ''But Huey Zhui wasn't on very good terms with his brother, was he?''

''That's true,'' Lai conceded. ''Didn't let the news spoil his New Year's party, did he? He wouldn't go racing off to avenge Sam now unless there was something in it for himself. Did the missing goods suddenly turn up?''

''No,'' Zhenyuan sighed. ''There's been no sign of them. Not on the streets, not leaving the SAR... Not even in the likely hideouts in the old city. Whoever knocked over Sam Zhui and cleaned out his base isn't in a hurry to move the spoils.''

''And the loot was what, again?''

''Norinco CQ rifles,'' the Chief Inspector explained grimly. ''Two hundred of them.''

''Which Huey wanted, I'll bet. So he came back here, and... what then?''

''Yesterday,'' said the elder policeman, ''Sam's killers made a repeat performance. We found twenty-eight corpses, neatly packed into an industrial refrigerator.''

''Killers? More than one?''

''At least two, and they were good.'' Zhenyuan produced a sheet of lined paper covered in an untidy scrawl. ''Have a look at this - it's a summary by Jerry Huang, from the forensics department.''

''Oh?'' Lai let out a whistle. ''A Tommygun, even... Did these guys rob a museum?''

''We're looking into that possibility.''

''Any leads on where Sam was going to send the weapons?''

''Not yet. If you've heard or seen anything - ''

''...I'd have put it into my full report,'' Lai interrupted. ''Anything - wait...''

''What is it?''

''Maybe nothing, but... Does the phrase 'ArmaLites and rose boxes' mean anything to you?''

''Not immediately. Where did you hear that?''

''Huey mentioned it when he was talking to one of his lieutenants about Sam's plans, maybe a week and a half ago. I thought it was just a joke, but maybe not.''

''Hm...'' Zhenyuan retrieved the paper. ''I'll look into it. Until your next orders come in, you're to lie low. Understand?''

''As always, sir.''

It was an ugly situation, and it wasn't looking as if it would soon get prettier. Any more trouble on top of this, and Zhenyuan was sure he'd either go mad or have a heart attack. Smugglers and gang infighting came with the territory, but two hundred missing weapons - particularly military grade weapons - was a question mark in need of a very stiff eraser. _The icing on the cake,_ he thought as he left the meeting place, _will be if we find that man is behind it all._


	5. Past Perfective

_Part 4: Past Perfective_

_Striving Boronia Naval Training Center (''Perth, Australia'')_

_02.08.2731 (''September 29th, 1990'')_

''Hold up, Cadet!''

Azanael shook her head as the head-shorter girl jogged up behind her, her white shoes tapping the wide flagstones underneath. ''You've got a long way to go before you sound like a runway instructor, Onomil.''

''And where would the fun be in that?'' Onomil slipped an arm around the inside of her senior's elbow and walked on, pulling Azanael onward. ''Four days without you is too long. You're done with training for the day?''

''Not yet.'' The rows of tall trees along each side of the path came to an end, leaving the pair bathed in murky afternoon sun. ''They gave us a break so they could reboot the simulators.''

''Same here.'' Onomil slowed as she came to a crossing, steering the dual parties past a cluster of first-rank trainees on their way to class. ''So... What's new on your side of the base?''

''Nothing really,'' the pilot sighed. ''My cadre should all be certified by now, but they've held us back for extra training a third time.''

''Let me guess - forime aircraft?''

''Yeah,'' Azanael sighed. ''We spend most of our time going over the performance models your analyst friends have been piecing together from recon data. Occasionally we get mock engagements against them in the sim-pods.''

''Sounds like fun.'' Onomil's voice was wistful. ''More fun than stellar cartography and EFD coolant temperatures.''

''You should come to one of the lectures some time - I think you'll change your mind after sitting through an explanation of exactly how a specific branch force deploys preemptive thermal-tracked munition countermeasures...''

Onomil made a face. ''Bleh.''

''That's it.'' Azanael stretched her free arm. ''Heard anything good from the forime-spotters?''

''Hm... Well, it sounds as if the Germanies are going to be reunited.''

''Peacefully?''

''Yes.''

''About time,'' Azanael opined. ''I can't imagine that sort of disunity happening here... I mean, that would be like the administrators of the north and south islands back home refusing to speak with one another - it just wouldn't be allowed!''

Onomil nodded. ''Anyway, have you thought about... it?''

Azanael didn't immediately catch the underlying message. ''Huh?''

''The ritual,'' the other Arume prompted. ''Will you do it with me?''

''Ah... Uh, Onomil, you know I don't really follow the old religion...''

''Come on.'' Onomil slipped her arm around the cadet's waist and rested her cheek on Azanael's bare shoulder. ''For tradition's sake?''

''I'm not even sure what I'm supposed to _do...''_

''You don't have to do anything,'' the younger of the two insisted. ''Just be there.''

Azanael turned so that they were face to face. ''Onomil, why are you pushing this all of a sudden? Has something happened?''

''I was tempted to make it a surprise, but...'' Onomil's greenish eyes usually had a playful, slightly perverted gleam in them, but right now they were eminently serious. ''I may get a fleet posting once my approval code comes in.''

The taller woman blinked. ''But that's good, isn't it?''

''I'm told it will be aboard the Fifth Fleet's new cruiser, not one of the carriers.'' Onomil bit her lip. ''And we see so little of each other even now...''

''Oh.'' It was true: such a job would be quite prestigious for someone of Onomil's ranking, but it would also leave no room for anything more than a tenuous long-distance relationship in her private life. No wonder she wanted to make a solid commitment now. ''They're selecting crew already?''

''A commanding officer, at least. It's Ekaril, from the - ''

''What, that crow-head?''

Onomil pursed her lips. ''You don't like her?''

''She's naïve.''

''Jealous?''

''Don't be ridiculous,'' Azanael retorted weakly. ''Anyway, the ritual... I guess it's okay.''

''You'll do it?''

''No good reason not to, and it'll make you happy, won't it?''

''Your parents won't object?''

''It's not a problem. You're set on performing it tonight?''

''Tonight, at the top of the hill behind the north dormitories.''

''I'll be there.''

* * *

The heads-up display flickered to life, the dull glow of its aging 2D display matrix sweeping over Azanael's visor. A tinny voice sounded in her ears: _''Ready, cadet?''_

''Ready.''

_''Review and confirm objective summary,''_ the voice went on as rows of text appeared in the pilot's field of view.

_Vehicle: Type 20-1 MRFB_

_Target(s): 2x [Mi-24V] escorting 4x [Mi-8T]_

_Objective(s): engage/destroy_

_Region(s): 25-40-40-89.35-76_

_Weather: clear/dusk/moderate wind NE_

_Approach: pilot discretion_

''Objectives confirmed,'' she reported crisply, resting her palms atop the control sticks and flexing her fingers. ''Ready for launch.''

_''Stand by for launch. Good luck, cadet.''_

Azanael's stomach tingled as the artificial gravity system powered up, and then she was cruising over a sprawling mountain range with six dark spots just above the horizon ahead. This should be an easy run: she had her favorite airframe and free choice in her attack strategy.

_Nothing to it._

* * *

Onomil couldn't stop giggling. ''It did a barrel roll? _Really?''_

''It's not funny,'' Azanael muttered sourly. ''Four years I've been training against that design, and all this time they insisted the maneuver was impossible... Now the snoops learn it _is_ possible, so they program it into the simulator without telling us and let me crash as an example!''

''Only fair,'' Onomil pointed out. ''You have the best simulator record in the entire class, after all.''

''Meh...'' The pilot looked around as Onomil, clad in a rough-spun robe, led her further into the woods. She was grateful for the cooler air here, but she was starting to wonder if they'd be able to find their way out of here once they were finished. ''Where exactly are we going?''

''It should be close,'' Onomil replied distractedly, ''but I've only been up here in daylight before... Wait, this is it.'' So saying, she pushed between a pair of bushes and came to a clearing amidst the trees. ''Are you ready?''

''More or less. Um... was I supposed to wear something special, too?''

''No, no - I just borrowed this for convenience.''

''Convenience...'' The cadet pilot's tongue got stuck changing gears as Onomil, moving efficiently, shrugged out of the robe, hung it from the stump of a broken-off branch and advanced on her companion. ''Ah... Er... Uh...''

''You aren't having second thoughts, are you?''

Azanael kept her eyes firmly fixed on a tree across the clearing. ''Um, _no.''_

''Mm.'' Onomil's fingers glided over her throat. ''Can I do yours?''

Azanael nodded. _Better to just shut up now than babble through the whole thing._ Her self-control was up to that task, even when it couldn't prevent an anticipatory shudder as Onomil's fingertip traced down the centerline of her body, the seam of her close-fit suit parting in its wake.

''You don't need to be self-conscious,'' the other admonished gently, tugging the suit off her shoulders. ''It's just you and me.''

Another nod.

''Leg up,'' Onomil prompted. ''Other leg... All done.'' She stepped back, taking Azanael's hands in her own. ''You look amazing.''

''Th-thanks...'' Azanael could feel herself developing a blush of incendiary intensity. ''Did our ancestors really... do this?''

Onomil's eyes twinkled as she retreated, guiding Azanael to the center of the clearing. ''Should have taken that cultural elective after all, hm?''

''Maybe.''

''You're cute when you're stubborn.'' Onomil knelt. ''Here,'' she instructed, indicating her lap. ''Lie down and place your head here.''

Azanael gingerly stretched out, flinching a little at the feeling of cold grass on her exposed back. ''I though you said I'm cute when I'm angry...''

''Shh.'' Onomil closed her eyes. ''I'm beginning.''

''...''

There was a weighted pause before the petite one spoke again. ''First Mother, giver of life to this world, in whose footsteps we follow, hear the plea of this timid heart...''

Azanael found her mind starting to wander elsewhere as she gazed at the night sky. It was a clear night, thousands of stars shimmering behind the rosy veil of gas and dust which hung closer to her vantage point. She wondered what it looked like for the forime: they had no nebular interference to hinder their stargazing, but she'd never yet seen a picture of their sky. _It's like the view from space, maybe? All those stars shining against a black void?_

Onomil distracted her by laying a hand on her belly. ''...Grant her quick conception, uncomplicated carriage and painless delivery, and let our children be...''

_That's why I hate the way people look at me... Jealous, covetous, it's all the same. They look at me like I'm a commodity._ At 24, Azanael was the tallest in her cadet group - taller than most of the others by at least a head. In a world where more and more girls experienced stunted growth, their corrupted genes freezing their development halfway through adolescence, she was one of the lucky few, the grownups, the ones who were desirable for their ability to give birth without the nerve-wracking complications experienced by everyone else. Soon that would change, though. Soon there would be forime women, so many of them, to solve the old crisis... _And then we'll be free to follow our own path._

''...For which you have our gratitude.'' Onomil opened her eyes. ''It's done. What do you think?''

''I thought it would be longer,'' Azanael admitted, sitting up. ''What now?''

''Now?'' Onomil was positively purring as she scooted forward and wrapped herself around her partner's back. ''Now that we've invoked the First Mother, it's only right that we consummate our bond.''

''Just like that?'' Azanael squinted. ''You're making this up, aren't you?''

There came the softest of laughs. ''You don't want to?''

''I didn't say - mmmph..!''

Words were superfluous after that.

* * *

_Bebeep-bebeep-bebeep-bebeep-bebeep-bip!_

''Yes..?''

_''Azanael?''_

The pilot sat up in her cockpit, blinking. She didn't recognize the curt voice on the other end. ''Yes.''

_''Flight Chief First Class, Fifth Fleet Command?''_

''No... I mean, I used to be, but I was discharged.''

_''Says here you're still on the reserve roster.''_

''...Who are you?''

_''I'm with Personnel Affairs. Your... family told us we could reach you at this number.''_

''Family?'' Azanael felt a sense of danger come on. ''What's this about?''

_''Mobilization orders. You're to report to the training center in Nagano first thing tomorrow morning for service evaluation.''_

''Tomorrow..? Do you know where I am right now?''

_''I can check, but maybe you should just tell me.''_

''I'm in Sarajevo. I'm also exhausted.''

_''Can't be helped.''_

No sympathy to be gotten from this one. ''I told you, I was discharged.''

_''Doesn't matter. If you want to file for a deferment, you'll have to show up anyway.''_

The line went dead, leaving one thoroughly confused Arume with a buzzing handset and a head full of questions, questions which would only multiply going forward.

It was the Ninth of March, 2016. The dogs of war were beginning to slip from their collars.


	6. Angels on Our Shoulders

_Part 5: Angels on Our Shoulders_

_Type IX Orbital Command Platform ''Magnanimous Hyacinth''_

_March 11th, 2016_

''Commanders, attention!''

Renaril straightened, a fist over her heart in the time-honored salute. On either side of her, twenty-eight commanders, group commanders and master commanders did the same. Were they charged with anticipatory energy as she was, despite being called to muster at this early hour?

''Sisters and daughters, this is your moment.'' The counselor was a majestic woman with a kindly face that was starting to develop lines, marking her as one of an old age indeed. ''Today, we reveal ourselves to the forime of this world. It should go without saying that you will be acting as ambassadors for all Arume, and the eyes of three worlds will be on you as you go forward... Some of you are veterans of our campaigns in the second universal layer, and some of you are taking command for the first time. You will all have a great degree of freedom in choosing how you will deal with the forime in your respective jurisdictions, but wherever your duty sends you, you must remember this: we do not come here to wantonly conquer and destroy as we did in the past. We are no longer a dying race trying to seize one last chance for survival.'' The speaker turned, pointing to the blue-green sphere on the wall display at the head of the briefing room. ''The world below us is a world in crisis, a world which is already weakened and will tear itself to pieces if we do not intervene... And yet, in spite of their predicament these forime cannot be expected to welcome us without restraint. Do not expect your tasks to be easy, nor your rewards to be quick in coming.''

Renaril held her breath as the counselor stepped down from the podium and came to stand almost directly in front of her. _Don't yawn, don't yawn, don't yawn..!_

''Thanks to the discovery of this third layer, we have a chance to experiment, to take the paths we did not take fifteen years ago. I trust each of you will make the most of this chance... Dismissed!''

* * *

''Ren-chaaaaan..!''

Renaril flinched. Only one person would call her... _''Oof!''_

''Nyaa,'' Mariel purred, clinging to the other's back relentlessly. ''Congratulations on winning the big assignment.''

''Congratulations to you too, Ma-chan,'' Renaril grunted, silently praying that the runt of a master commander wouldn't start tugging her ponytail or squeezing her breasts. ''Your theories of forime relations and governance seem to be vindicated.''

''I wish.'' Mariel's voice turned serious as she released her grip and fell into step beside the group commander. ''The counselor's speech was all very well, but I don't think many of our peers are on board with the idea.'' She eyed Renaril speculatively. ''How about yourself? China's a big deal, even if this planet's population is half what the other had.''

Renaril wished she could see this focused, serious side of Mariel more often. ''I think I'm up to it,'' she said aloud.

''Got any policy plans?''

''I'd rather wait until I've talked to their leaders and seen the situation on the ground up close before I go too far with that.''

''Good idea.'' At that point, the door at the end of the passageway slid open, revealing a vast shuttle bay. ''Guess I'd better run off,'' Mariel said. ''See you later, Ren-chan.''

''Yeah,'' Renaril replied, trying not to make her relief obvious. ''Later, Ma-chan.'' Left to her own devices, she looked around. One of these sleek spacecraft was for her use, she knew, but which?

''Excuse me, coming through...''

''Oh..!'' The group commander jumped aside as a fully laden equipment cart glided past her. ''Sorry,'' she mumbled, following it along. ''I was...'' Renaril blinked, recognizing the woman who guided the cart. ''Wait. You're Elaqebil's friend... Azanael, right? I didn't realize you were still in the navy.''

''I didn't either,'' the tall pilot explained, ''until two days ago. Right now I'm only cleared to fly cargo.''

''I see.''

''Something I can help you with?''

''I hope so.'' Renaril waved towards the shuttles ahead. ''Which one is going to Beijing?''

Three months ago, Renaril hadn't even known a third universal layer existed. Three months ago, all she could have looked forward to was a long career behind a counterinsurgency management desk. Three months ago, she would have envied Mariel for having the courage to do something different. What the Arume had taken twenty years to do in the second layer had just been accomplished in a mere ten weeks in the third. It wasn't anticipation alone that made the young officer giddy today.

* * *

_Beebeebeebeebeep! Beebeebeebeebeep! Beebeebeebeebeep!_

''Mmmph...'' A bare, slender arm reached out from the bed, fumbling about on the adjacent table for the source of the noise. ''Nnng..!''

_Beebeebeebeebeep! Beebeebee - bip!_

'''Ello..?''

_''Good morning, Colonel. Sorry if I woke you.''_

Misato bolted upright, the blanket falling to reveal a curvy torso. The voice coming through her cellular phone was rough with a pronounced American accent. It was a voice she hadn't been expecting. ''Where have you been..?''

_''It doesn't matter... Listen, some aliens are coming to visit. Be polite, but don't trust them.''_

''What?''

_''Keep 'em off the refugees' backs and whatever you do, don't give in to any demands they make. Don't be cowed by their flashy magic tricks, either. If they ask about me, say I went into the private sector.''_

''...I have no idea what you're talking about.''

_''Put some clothes on and take a look out the window, then... Anyway, you'll understand soon enough. This will probably be the last you hear from me for a while. Take care of Shinji and the others.''_ The call ended there, as abrupt as it had begun.

A scruffy head with an unkempt brown ponytail appeared at Misato's shoulder. ''Was that..?''

The well-rounded woman nodded silently, her above and beyond hungover brain trying to catch up with recent developments.

''Did he say something about aliens?''

''Yes, Kaji-kun, he said something about aliens.'' Misato swung her legs over the side of the bed and initiated her transformation sequence, becoming Colonel Katsuragi by the time she was standing upright. ''It's not fair,'' she mumbled, trying to remember where she'd flung her bra seven hours earlier. ''He disappears into thin air and we don't hear a peep from him for ten weeks, and now this happens. What do we tell Commander Ikari?''

Kaji was a couple of steps ahead in the dressing department. ''I'll deal with him,'' he said quietly. ''If anything strange is going to happen, you'll be needed in Operations.''

''Gah.'' Misato massaged her pounding forehead with one hand and dialed Nerv headquarters with the other. ''Hyuga-kun?'' she asked once the connection was complete. ''Please tell me nothing strange happened overnight.''

_''Nothing happened last night, Colonel,''_ the lieutenant on the other end replied. _''Why do you ask?''_

''Don't ask,'' the colonel said with great finality. ''I'll see you in a bit.''

* * *

''Yo, Shinji! You're up early today!''

''Yes.'' There wasn't much the effeminate boy could say to that, beyond the obvious. ''Good morning, Kensuke.''

The freckle-faced armchair brigadier tweaked his glasses. ''You sound cheerful this morning. Kamikaze put the moves on you?''

''I haven't seen him yet,'' Shinji answered inattentively, looking around the school gates for a sign of the mute boy. ''Actually, Kaji-san came over and said he had to speak to Mother and Father. He looked very serious.''

''Ah.'' Kensuke's brow furrowed. ''That does sound ominous... Just a second.'' Quickly producing his multifunction camcorder, he set it to television mode, extended the antenna and peered into the eyepiece. ''Let's see if there's anything... on the... news..?'' Both boys looked up as a whine rose in the distance, growing louder until a sleek, bus-sized white craft came skimming low over the school roof. Kensuke spoke for both of those watching: ''Whoa!''

Shinji's first impulse as the strange vehicle swung around and descended towards the street was to grab his friend by the wrist and run for dear life, but the intruder was already settling onto four extended struts by the time he had gathered his wits enough for any definite action. _Too late,_ he decided. _I mustn't run away!_

''Shinji,'' Kensuke whispered, ''what should we do?''

''Uh...''

Then the doors of the craft opened, and a group of women emerged. Their eyes were a milky blue, their hair various shades of white and their uniforms simple and form-fitting in a way that reminded Shinji of gymnasts' leotards. They looked around for a few moments before parting to reveal another woman. Unlike the rest, she wore denim cutoffs and a tube top, and the hair which reached almost to her waist was a brilliant green.

Nothing for it, Shinji decided, but to take the initiative. ''G-greetings,'' he said cautiously.

The casually-dressed woman held up a hand, palm outward and fingers split in the middle. ''Live long and prosper,'' she called cheerfully. ''Please take me to your leader!''

Shinji somehow wasn't much surprised by this development. A sideways glance at Kensuke suggested that he wasn't surprised either.

* * *

''Well, well.'' Anton 'Woodpecker' Zozulya nodded to himself as he perused the grainy printout in the red glow of the control room's operating lights. ''Comrades, the situation has gotten interesting.''

''You're taking it lightly,'' Captain Arkady Vinogradov remarked, shaking his gray whiskers. ''You were never this cocky before we went into the private sector.''

''Lightly?'' Woodpecker laughed softly. ''Why, I merely feel safe and cozy down here in your marvelous submarine, that's all.''

''Please remember,'' Vinogradov sighed, ''that our marvelous submarine is nearly thirty-four years old. TK-Two-Zero-Two is a reliable machine, but she is not infallible. Even with the missile tubes removed, there are plenty of things that can go wrong.''

''And yet,'' Woodpecker countered graciously, ''the commissar has faith in her.''

''Plus the money to back that faith up... So, what orders from the head office?''

Woodpecker looked over the printout a second time. ''Standing instructions are the same as before: proceed to Hong Kong and wait for the command to surface and unload the cargo.''

''Very well. What about our new, ah... friends? This vessel is quiet, but she is no _Krasniy Oktyabr_. We may not be able to hide from a thorough search.''

''I know, good Captain, I know... You still have the torpedoes and the small missiles, do you not?''

''For what they are worth, yes.''

''There you have it, then. Torpedoes at the aliens.''

''That's what the commissar would say, I'm sure.'' The captain made a wry face. ''Did he really place a bid on the Buran carcass?''

''Bid on it and won it... We already have the supporting Antonov, after all. I suppose he thinks there's a market in being able to deliver from orbit.''

''Or else he enjoys spending company funds on historic junk,'' Vinogradov complained. ''As if those tanks and cannon from the swamp weren't enough!''

''You're one to talk, Arkady Dazdrapertrakovich. Or is your submarine not historic?''

''You mock me, Anton Sergeyevich, but I will concede the point... Tolik, set course twenty degrees and bring us to cruise depth!''

* * *

As the ex-missile sub cruised northwards along the Vietnamese coast, the rays of the new day's sun swept westward across the face of the planet. The Arume followed in the light's wake, shuttles touching down in one capital after another. In New Delhi, in Moscow, in Berlin and in many others, messages of both hope and warning were heard:

_Your country is a core of stability. Let us help you expand your influence and bring peace to this region._

_Your country is falling apart, threatening the stability of your neighbors. Without our aid, your decline will bring destruction to all around you._

The Second Layer War began two days later.


	7. Angels and Amazons

_Part 6: Angels and Amazons_

_Zhongshan Civic Center, North Hong Kong (formerly Shenzhen Special Economic Zone)_

_Guangdong Province, People's Republic of China_

_March 12th, 2016_

Renaril had been wise to pass over the formal uniform's boots and gloves, but the sooner she could get out of the sun and remove her cap and cape, the better. She was struggling to imagine how the local forime could stand this climate, the more so since many of them dressed far more heavily than she did.

''Group Commander,'' one of the two aides behind her panted wearily, ''was it necessary to land the shuttle so far from the meeting place?''

''It's better that we avoid accidentally antagonizing the residents of this sector,'' the officer replied. ''More importantly, we are showing the forime that we don't wish to tread on them.'' When the other Arume made a noise of depressed acquiescence, she frowned. ''Anyway, we're here. Don't look so gloomy.''

The civic center was a squat concrete monolith of recent construction. A pair of green-uniformed soldiers stood rigidly on either side of the front entrance, flanking a slender young woman in a brown skirt and jacket typical of that social stratum known to the world as the 'office worker'. ''Good morning,'' she began in English with nervous formality as Renaril arrived before her. ''My name is Zhu and I will be your interpreter today.''

''Pleased to meet you,'' the alien returned, hoping the stock phrase and proffered hand were acceptable gestures of friendliness here. When such proved to be the case, she continued. ''I hope we have not kept you waiting long.''

''Not at all,'' said Zhu earnestly. ''The ambassador is waiting inside, but I fear our military consultant has not yet arrived.''

''We aren't in a hurry.'' Renaril tried her best to sound gracious and not disappointed. ''But perhaps we should meet the ambassador before the talks begin?''

''As you say.'' Zhu held the door open. ''After you, ladies.''

There were more soldiers standing guard in the lobby, all as stiff as the bronze statues placed along the walls. Following Zhu to the elevator, Renaril found herself hoping her trailing subordinates weren't staring at anybody. She was distracted from that line of thought by the look which scurried across the interpreter's face when the vertical people-mover arrived, a look which seemed to suggest Zhu didn't dare assume that Arume understood elevators. Determined to prove otherwise, the commander placidly stepped into the narrow space, turned around and stood with her hands behind her back. Her aides filed in after her, and Zhu was doing the same when trouble came running. The only warnings were an incoherent yell from outside and a startled cry from the forime intermediary. When Renaril regained her bearings, there were five pairs of feet in the elevator.

The Arume's first impression of the intruder was formed quite literally from the ground up: shoes and olive trousers of the same style as the soldiers' uniforms, then a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the two uppermost buttons undone, all crowned by a young adult face comprised of lips compressed in silent irritation, an inoffensive nose and dark eyes which suffered from a clearly habitual squint. Though the frame on which all these details were mounted was unquestionably female, the brown hair at the top was cut to a decidedly masculine standard of shortness. While the Arume absorbed this data, the subject of observation had already resumed her furious scribbling with a pencil upon a well-weighted clipboard, both articles having been in her hands the entire time. She paid no attention at all to the others, nor did she acknowledge being the cause of considerable alarm.

There was an uncomfortable silence. Renaril was just working up the courage to ask the typhoon to explain herself when Zhu spoke. ''Ahem... Group Commander Renaril, this is our consultant, Colonel Kang Li of the People's Liberation Army.''

''I see...''

Colonel Kang spoke abruptly, her voice as gruff as her looks and then some. The rapid syllables were all gibberish to Renaril, but Zhu replied in kind. The Arume wondered if the other forime found the colonel intimidating: though shorter than any of the male soldiers, she loomed over the alien. Her bare forearms weren't those of someone who gave a lot of tender embraces, either. When the elevator lurched to a halt, she strode out and disappeared with as much subtlety as she'd entered.

''I apologize,'' Zhu said, faltering momentarily as she directed the elevator to its next destination. ''The colonel has to deliver some papers and will rejoin us soon.''

''She seems... driven,'' Renaril observed quietly.

''The colonel has been primarily occupied with the problem of the separatists in Xinjiang,'' the interpreter explained. ''I do not think anyone envies her for it.'' Another lurch signaled the entourage's arrival at the desired floor. ''This way, please.''

A minute's walk through a maze of corridors brought the four to a spacious room with a long table in the middle and a long window at the far end. Inside waited a rotund middle-aged man with an impeccable suit and a wide smile. ''Group Commander,'' Zhu announced, ''I present Ambassador Zheng Wu.''

_Finally,_ Renaril thought. _Time to get to work._

* * *

The next seven hours were a blur of proposals, settlements and myriad minutiae of diplomacy. Zheng appeared satisfied with the results, even as Colonel Kang - who had slipped into the room shortly after the Arume entered and stood at Zheng's elbow ever since, speaking only when spoken to - seemed more and more as if she were struggling to contain some immense displeasure. ''The ambassador looks forward to working with you again,'' Zhu translated as the man rose to leave, the latter oblivious to Kang's tension. ''If there is anything else you need, please do not hesitate to ask.''

''There is,'' the alien officer answered, carefully waiting until the ambassador made his exit. ''I'd like to ask the colonel a few questions.''

Zhu relayed the request to Kang, who replied in that same curt tone as before. ''Well then,'' the interpreter said meekly, ''excuse me.''

Renaril blinked as she slipped out. ''Um...''

''We don't need her,'' Kang said, speaking English for the first time. ''Unless you found her pleasing to look at.''

The Arume officer suspected she'd just been made a fool of. ''You can speak..?''

''Not in front of Zheng.'' Kang slowly walked around to Renaril's side of the table. ''Well?''

''Just a moment.'' Renaril turned to her aides. ''Wait outside,'' she ordered in Arumic. ''This should only take a few minutes.''

The aides plainly objected to the idea of leaving her alone with Kang. ''But - ''

''I'll be fine. Go on.''

''...Yes, ma'am.''

Kang watched them depart impassively before returning her gaze to Renaril. ''So what do you want?''

''You...'' The commander stopped herself and considered her words carefully. ''You looked as if there was something you wanted to say without the ambassador hearing. If you'd like to speak...'' Her voice trailed off as the colonel stepped past her and strode to the window.

''May I speak honestly?''

''Of course.''

''Very well... Group Commander, how old are you?''

''One hundred and two,'' Renaril answered automatically. ''Oh... By your calendar, about twenty-five.''

The colonel's eyes were on the cityscape outside. ''Do you have any prior experience in your current position?''

''No,'' the Arume countered defensively, ''but I've trained extensively and studied the necessary - ''

Kang cut her off. ''Do you have any idea what you're doing? What you're getting into?''

''I understand that your country is facing serious problems, and that I am accepting a responsibility to do whatever I can to help you solve them.''

''Do you?'' Suddenly Kang was right beside her seat. ''Then why did I spend these past hours watching you smile and nod your head and agree to whatever that man put in front of you?''

''What do you mean?'' Despite her efforts at self-discipline, Renaril was getting flustered. ''I have to support your interests by working with the representatives and practices of your government, of course.''

''Interests?'' Kang's lip curled. ''You really are naïve if you believe that.'' She returned to the window. ''I didn't go to Cambodia so that his kind could maintain their rich lifestyle, let alone sell us out to an alien empire.''

''We aren't - ''

''Liar.''

Renaril's heart skipped a beat. It was only one word, but there was no explaining it away: Kang had just spoken in Arumic. ''H-how did you..?''

The soldier reverted to English. ''I thought so,'' she said flatly, advancing again. While the other went through Abort, Retry and settled on Fail, she extracted a folded bundle of papers from a back pocket and tossed it on the table. ''I assume you haven't seen this.''

Renaril unfolded the document with growing trepidation. It was a laser printout with rather small type, and its header simply read: _Who are the Arume?_ The author, if the subheading could be trusted, was one E Nani Moose. There was nothing overtly critical or judgmental in the tone of the paragraphs which followed, yet their content was a damning indictment for Renaril and her peers. The origin of the Arume, their culture, their way of life, their invasion of the second universal layer and occupation thereof, their weapons of terror... It was all there, clinically summarized.

''Well?'' Kang prompted, ending the long silence.

''...Where did you get this?''

''It was in my inbox this morning. I don't know how far it's proliferated, but Beijing will notice it soon... I suppose some conscientious party on your side leaked it?''

The shock didn't wear off quickly. ''It must have been...''

''So it's true, isn't it?''

''Yes,'' Renaril confessed numbly. ''We're a race of women who have... relationships with other women.''

''That's fine,'' Kang said bluntly. ''I'm not asking about that.''

The commander was still floundering ''This... makes our meeting today pointless, doesn't it?''

''I don't think our leaders have any choice but to go through with the deal, not if they want to retain any of their privileges.''

''What do you mean? ...Wait. Before that, what were you saying about Cambodia?''

''It all comes back to the same thing.'' Kang returned to the window once more. Her anger seemed to be giving way to a heavy weariness. ''I'm twenty-eight years old. I joined the army at sixteen. Underage, you understand? I was a hot-blooded young patriot and I wanted to do my part for the country.'' She shook her head. ''They sent us to Cambodia to fight an Islamic insurgency... Barbarians, especially towards women. The insurgents blew up Angkor Wat a week after we arrived - that should give you an idea of how bad they were. We spent nearly two years there, trying to survive on the far end of a logistical system still reeling from the losses of Second Impact, surrounded by the enemy on all sides and with no fire support and guns that were nearly useless in the jungle. By the time the campaign was over, every surviving man in my platoon had replaced his issued rifle with something captured from the other side or bought on the black market... Do you understand?''

Renaril was beginning to understand the origin of Kang's personality, at least. ''I think so.''

''After Cambodia, they sent us to Xinjiang to put down another uprising there. More Islamists, pushing for an independent state in that region... They were much tougher and more resilient than the ones in Cambodia. The Americans regarded them as terrorists, so they promised to help us if we granted Tibet independence. We did what they asked, and the help never arrived.'' The colonel turned around. ''It's been ten years since I first set foot in Xinjiang. The insurgents there are stronger today than they ever were before, and now they are supported by extremists from Afghanistan, Pakistan and the former Soviet states to the west. They have techniques inherited third-hand from the Americans and weapons we gave them to use against Russia in the eighties.'' There was a sardonic chuckle. ''Because of ten years spent pouring money into the bottomless pit that was the Evangelion project and selling off our tanks to make the UN happy, the mighty People's Republic can't even clear out some throat-slitting guerrillas. Domestic discontent is steadily rising as well... So you see, our proud leaders will do business with you regardless of that document.''

The commander was now solidly confused. ''But you... don't want me to 'do business' with them.''

''You'll have to, at least until you have enough space to work around them, but that doesn't mean you should do as they say. They're all like that ambassador now, fat parasites who don't care about the ordinary people even though shortages are growing... The emperor is dead and the eunuchs are running loose in the court.''

Renaril thought about this for a minute, then braced herself. ''What would you have me do?''

''If you sincerely want to help us, find some honest, competent advisers who genuinely care about the welfare of the people, and listen to them.''

''Like yourself?''

Kang shrugged. ''I'm a soldier, not a sociologist. I could help you manage the military and speak from my own experience, but that's all.''

''And what if I wanted that? I'd like someone with your frankness and dedication. Would you work for me?''

The forime walked to the window and looked out pensively. ''If you can get Beijing's endorsement and convince me that you mean what you say...'' She went silent for a few seconds, then whirled and rushed at Renaril.

''Eeek!''

The chair tumbled onto its side as Kang hit the floor, wrapping herself around the Arume's smaller body and rolling both of them under the heavy table. There was an earsplitting bang followed by the zing of a hail of glass flying overhead. Renaril lay still, whimpering a little despite the soldier's protecting body above her, until Kang raised herself. ''Are you all right?''

''Y-yes,'' the commander gasped, her mind far removed from the deep cleavage before her eyes. ''What was that?''

''RPG.'' Kang rolled to the side and drew a pistol from a shoulder holster. ''We need to move. Follow me, keep your head down and stay quiet. Watch out for the glass.'' With those instructions, she began to crawl towards the door.

Renaril followed, desperately hoping no harm had come to her staff. ''Um... My request...''

''I'll do it.''

Relief flooded through the commander's slender frame. At least _one_ thing had turned out in her favor today.


	8. The Day the Music Died

_Part 7: the Day the Music Died_

_Hong Kong SAR, PRC_

_March 13th, 2016_

A moist, warm breeze caressed Biological Self-Destructive Weapon Unit C76251-S577's slim body, tickling the soles of her bare feet and swirling through her white hair as she descended through the open hatch in the carrier's underside. Opening her eyes to this new world, she found herself immersed in the first rays of a sun just clearing the distant horizon. Below her, the lights of a city were scattered among green hills. In front, beyond the rubble and half-submerged structures standing as solitary tributes to a shoreline left behind by some past rising tide, an ocean stretched off to infinity.

A great happiness swelled in S577's heart as she beheld the forms of hundreds of her sisters floating around her, emerging from the same ship as herself or from the others hovering over the city. Though she had never once in her brief life actually interacted with any of them, she felt an unshakable bond with each. Why was she here? Who had decided it? She neither knew nor cared. To S577, this was simply how it was supposed to be, was simply _right._ She existed for one single purpose and as soon as she had drifted a little lower she would joyfully fulfill it, releasing the power within herself as some of her distant sisters were beginning to do already.

Something streaked by at the far edge of her field of vision, a peripheral blur moving upwards at a steep angle. Its passage left an impression of heat and an acrid smell as a dull thump sounded overhead, propagating a rolling echo across the terrain underfoot. A wave of fear splashed over the girl.

''Don't do it!''

S577's head snapped up. The ship which had carried her here was damaged, smoke pouring from a twisted hole in the sheer white hull. As she watched, the great hatch began to close and the vessel started to move. The others close by were also staring at the spectacle, their serene expressions displaced by the same alarm S577 experienced. One on high, probably the last to leave the shelter of the carrier, was waving her arms. ''Don't!'' she cried again. ''You mustn't destroy yourselves!''

She didn't understand why she felt afraid, why the other was calling out or why she chose to obey, but obey she did.

* * *

''Why?'' C76239-D451 demanded. ''Why did you stop us?''

C76263-B303 didn't answer. Though it was her words which had snapped the thirty girls out of their induced reverie and guided them to this hiding place under the lush trees of a rocky hillside, she had since fallen into a numb silence. Everyone seemed at a loss regarding the next move.

S577 had at least found enough energy to scout the lay of the land. Raising a hand to shield her eyes, she peered out at the destruction wrought by those who had failed to hear B303's warning. Columns of smoke were rising from a handful of points across the city, swirling an ominous black color in the midday sun. The girl somehow expected there to be a cacophony of frantic noise associated with the spectacle, not the dull murmur far away which she could hear now.

Then someone's stomach rumbled, emphasizing the futility of sitting and waiting for an outside initiative. ''We should move,'' S577 proclaimed. ''We have no food or shelter. If someone finds us, we might be attacked. We can't stay here.''

''Move where?'' D451 retorted despairingly. ''We don't know this place. We have no friends, no guides... We don't even have shoes! How can we survive?''

''It doesn't matter.'' S577 placed her hands on her bare hips. ''We'll find something or think of something. If we can't even _try,_ what was the point of choosing to live?'' Once all eyes were on her, she jerked her head towards the shattered urbs. ''I'm going down there,'' the girl continued defiantly. ''You can come or stay as you like.''

* * *

In the end, B303 and fourteen of the others opted to follow S577's lead: just over half the total. The leader apparent, for her part, was starting to feel like a queen of all fools. She really had no idea where she was trying to go, nor what she would do when she arrived at whatever place that turned out to be. Perhaps, like B303 before her, she was waiting for somebody else to step in and make the next decision. Her feet were on fire from trekking over hot pavement and gravel in turn, and she was beginning to sweat despite her flimsy garment. Looking forward, she could see a row of wide rectangular structures which seemed to have escaped the morning's hundreds of explosions - the word 'warehouse' came into her mind, though she couldn't recall ever hearing it before. Like the language she spoke and the footsteps she took, that knowledge had somehow always been inside her.

''What do you think?'' she asked, looking back as B303 came to her side. ''I don't see any movement.''

''It's fine,'' the other panted desperately. ''Let's... go...''

S577 slipped an arm across B303's shoulders, lending support as the group returned to walking. ''Almost there,'' she encouraged. ''At least we can rest in the shade.'' Her companion nodded, and together the duo made a final scramble to the building at the row's end. The overhanging edge of the roof afforded ample respite from the sun, though not from the humid wind.

''This is better,'' one tired girl sighed after a minute or two, looking around curiously. ''What are these used for?''

''Storage,'' another guessed. ''Maybe there's food inside?''

''Wouldn't it have to be kept cold? This wall doesn't feel cold.''

A new noise alerted S577. ''Quiet,'' she called softly, dropping into a wary crouch. Somewhere on the far side of the building, a mixture of grinding, clanking and sputtering was growing louder. As the girl mentally cringed at the prospect of trying to retreat unseen, the sounds suddenly cut out.

''Metford,'' a voice called over the rattling of a large door in motion, ''get everyone inside and tell them I'll be back with more as soon as I can.'' The speaker was a man, the language English. ''Keep a low profile. We'll bring up whatever supplies we can scrounge as soon as the trucks are dug out. Got it?''

''Yes, I understand. Good luck.''

''You too.'' The mechanical noises resumed. S577 had barely enough time to realize they were coming closer before the vehicle rattled into view: a compact yellow-brown object which defied immediate classification, pulling a two-wheeled trailer behind it. The single wheel at the front with handlebars and a headlight attached was consistent with something called a 'motorcycle' but the linked tracks under the main body looked like components from a 'tank'. The contraption had a slogan, _MY OTHER RIDE IS A PANZERKAMPFWAGEN_, stenciled in black along its side. Its operator was a large, heavyset man in a many-pocketed vest, a short-sleeve shirt and green pants with even more pockets, who appeared slightly less startled by the abrupt encounter than the girl herself.

The machine lurched to a stop, its engine dying with a cough. ''What happened?'' the one called Metford inquired from out of view. ''Is something wrong?''

S577 silently gave the driver a pleading look, holding her hands up to show her inhostility. He gazed back at her with an unreadable expression through large goggles, strapped below a black metal helmet with a flared rim around the sides and back. The part of his face that she could see bore prominent scars, as did his hairy forearms. When he lifted his right hand to adjust the helmet, she also saw that the tip of his ring finger was missing. ''Nothing's wrong,'' he replied gruffly. ''Fumbled the clutch, that's all.''

That he had not immediately given away their presence gave S577 hope. Keeping her hands up, she slowly walked towards the stranger. ''Uh...'' _What should I say? How can I persuade this forime to help us?_

The man saved her the trouble. ''Well?'' he demanded in an undertone. ''What's your excuse?''

She understood the words but not the context. ''What..?''

''I was filling out paperwork, minding my own business, and then stuff started exploding. That's my excuse. What's yours?''

''I... We... didn't want to die.''

''Uh-huh.'' The driver nodded skeptically. ''So what _do_ you want?''

''We want... I mean, we need...'' S577's stomach gurgled, prompting an embarrassed blush. ''Please, can you help us?''

The other pursed his lips. ''I'm not a philanthropist,'' he muttered. ''I don't run an orphanage or a foster home, either.''

''But...''

The helmeted one raised a hand. ''Now, if you wanted to help us dig survivors out of the rubble, _then_ we might be able to work something out. You interested?''

''Er, I... That is, I should ask the others...''

''Hurry up. I need to get back to the rescue team.''

S577 retraced her steps at three times the speed. ''He says he can help us if we help him,'' she announced. ''Should we accept?''

The majority expression was of cautious optimism. ''Can we trust him?'' one of the girls asked furtively.

''I don't know,'' S577 conceded, ''but what else can we do?'' It took a few seconds more to secure an uneasy consensus, and then she walked back to the man on the tank-cycle. ''We accept,'' she told him nervously.

''Okay,'' he grunted, motioning over his shoulder. ''Everybody in.''

S577 watched as the others boarded the trailer, then climbed onto the seat at the back of the motorized unit itself. B303 sat beside her, gripping the side handrail tightly. ''Excuse me,'' the former began, ''there are some others who stayed behind...''

''How many?''

''Ah, fourteen... Up there a little ways.'' She pointed. ''Could you..?''

The driver shrugged. ''Haven't got space for 'em... I'll make a pickup after my next run, okay?''

''...All right.''

''Fine.'' The engine roared to life and the vehicle lurched forwards, turning in a wide arc towards the heart of the ruined city.

* * *

''Stop!''

The man applied his brakes more gently this time. ''Now what?'' he complained, twisting in his seat. ''You getting motion sick, or... Oh.'' A new column of smoke was climbing into the sky, its origin the hillside where the other girls had remained. ''Looks like your friends had second thoughts.''

''No!'' B303 cried. ''We all promised each other we wouldn't!''

''Huh...'' The man in the helmet frowned. ''And what's this now? Arume coming down from on high?''

It was true: a sleek white craft was zooming towards the remaining girls and their guide, skimming low over the roofs of the few buildings which yet stood. ''Arume,'' S577 repeated. ''They... Could the Arume have killed them?''

''Looks like we're gonna find out,'' the stranger observed grimly, cutting his engine as the ship circled and descended. ''No way this Kettenkrad can outrun that thing... Everyone keep cool, got it?''

The white ship settled onto spindly struts, parking side-on so that the street straight ahead was blocked. A hatch at the rear opened and eight figures emerged. They were huge compared to S577 and her sisters, yet the tank-cycle's driver looked as if he could tower over any of them. Each wore a blue uniform with a flower emblem on the arms, a thick gray vest and a belt with a row of snap-fastened pouches. Their faces were hidden behind air filters and helmets with tinted visors, their gloved hands burdened by black weapons. From her perch at the tail of the vehicle, S577 saw the driver's shoulders tense up.

One of the soldiers, his seniority evidenced by the extra bars under his arm insignia, directed the rest with a quick chain of hand signals. ''You!'' he barked aloud. ''Out of the vehicle!''

''Wait,'' the driver commanded under his breath, catching B303 half-disembarked. ''I don't recognize your outfit,'' he went on, raising his voice. ''What business d'you have stoppin' people on the road, eh?''

The soldier leader made another signal. His men advanced on the unmoving machine, raising their guns to their shoulders. S577's feeling of dread grew, a paralyzing fear matching it step for step. ''Get out,'' the leader repeated. _''Now.''_

''Yeah, yeah,'' the driver grumbled, lifting himself onto the tank-cycle's side and swinging a leg over. ''Just let me put my brace on...'' He started to reach for the metal rod with attached straps which lay against his seat, only to be seized by two of the soldiers and dragged bodily from the machine. ''Ow!'' he cried as the helmet and goggles were yanked off. His hair was blond, his left eye blue. The other was gone, nothing but a pit of scar tissue. ''Leggo, dammit!''

The soldiers ignored his discomfort. ''Search him,'' the leader ordered, then turned to the girls. ''All of you, out.'' He waved towards the cracked sidewalk on the left. ''Stand over there.''

S577 didn't see any options beside complying. She moved in silence, watching out of the corner of her eye as the stranger was held up by a pair of soldiers and briskly patted down by a third. ''He's clean,'' the last reported.

The leader stepped in front of the driver. ''Identify yourself.''

''Name's Higgins,'' the man spat. ''Edsel Higgins. I work for the Biv brothers.''

''Who?''

''The Roy G and Irving Biv Import-Export Company,'' Higgins sighed. ''Look, I ain't got time for this crap, okay? We got a lotta hurt people, buried people, and they need help. How 'bout you knock off the bad-cop routine and - _oof!''_

''You speak when spoken to,'' the commander hissed, withdrawing his fist from Higgins' gut. ''Do you understand me?''

Higgins simply glared at him.

''What happened to your face?''

''I was once a salesman of electric blenders,'' the one-eyed man said evenly. ''They gave me a defective unit for a product demo.''

The leader dropped that line of interrogation. ''Where did you pick up the gosta?''

''The what?''

''The girls.'' S577 could imagine the leader's teeth grinding behind his mask. ''Where did you find them?''

''Uptown a-ways. They offered to help with the rescue.''

''Cut the bullshit!'' the leader shouted, punching Higgins again. ''Where are your friends?''

''Huh..?''

A third punch left the man slumped and wheezing in the soldiers' grasp, an acrid puddle of his stomach's contents on the ground. ''Stop it!'' B303 cried. ''He hasn't done anything!''

The officer turned away from Higgins, raising a hand to the radio on the front of his vest. ''I think this is our man,'' S577 heard him mutter. ''Should we bring him in? ...All right.'' He turned back to his troops. ''Get rid of him. We'll burn the tractor.''

S577 wasn't the only girl baring her teeth as Higgins was unceremoniously thrown against the side of the tank-cycle and left to slide down onto the pavement. These soldiers who worked for the Arume were beating up the defenseless forime merely for helping the girls: the knowledge filled her with rage, helpless as she was.

''Hey fascists,'' Higgins coughed, somehow cracking a grin despite his predicament. ''You gonna shoot the kids too?''

The soldiers ignored him.

''Do I get any famous last words?''

_How can he find this funny?_ S577 thought incredulously. _He's about to die!_ Watching the soldiers take aim, she gritted her teeth and sucked in a deep breath. ''Hey!'' she shouted, and broke into a low run up the street. It was better for them to be distracted and kill her, who had barely lived at all, then a forime who must have family and friends who would miss him, wasn't it?

Behind her came a defiant yell from Higgins: ''Shoot straight, you bastards! Don't make a mess of it!''

The crash of gunfire failed to materialize. S577 started to look back, promptly tripped and went tumbling, scraping her knees, palms and elbows. Raising her head, she spotted one of the soldiers slumped on the ground and the others all looking in the opposite direction. ''Sniper!'' the commander yelled, hostile condescension giving way to alarm. ''It's a fucking sniper! _Get down!''_

Higgins was on the move, clawing his way up the side of the tank-cycle. Once he was upright, leaning against its hull, he reached down and picked up a long cloth-wrapped object from next to the driver seat. The soldiers' leader, down on his knees now, twisted towards him. ''You..!''

_Zup-p-p!_

The girl could hear the bullet's impact this time, could see the commander's body jolt as it punched into him. Higgins threw the ragged cloth to the wind, revealing a long weapon of gray metal and brown wood. ''Squall astern, poltroons!'' In a flash, the butt was against his left shoulder and the muzzle aimed squarely at the nearest soldier. ''Hoo-ah!''

A feeling of savage glee surged through S577's petite frame as the big man released a long burst, ripping through one prostrate enemy after another as a stream of little golden tubes tumbled through the air beside him. The Arume ship began to rise, retracting its landing gear while the one-eyed gunner pulled an angular box out of his weapon's underside, snatched another one from some hidden place beside his machine's seat and slapped it into place. As the ship's nose swung towards him, he aimed carefully and emptied his second magazine in an arc across its windshield. Sparks flew, then chips and shards of broken plastiglass.

The craft continued to rise and pivot slowly, drifting off to the right at the same time. After a few moments the living bomb realized it must be out of control. Tearing her vivid eyes away from the spectacle, she observed a group of armed forime coming up the street towards Higgins and the tank-cycle. The one in front was a short-haired woman in green-brown camouflage clothes, as tall as Higgins and definitely related to him. Following her were two men with large backpacks, one carrying a fat tube on his shoulder. ''Nice job with the Vintorez, KK,'' Higgins said to the woman. ''And you brought the Carl G along... Go ahead, Ruslan.''

The man with the tube nodded and turned to face the spinning Arume ship, revealing that the object had a conical section at its rear. ''Stand clear,'' he called in an accented voice. ''Firing!''

_Foomp!_

_...Kaboom!_

In the aftermath of the explosion, with the white craft returning to ground in small pieces, S577 heard Higgins quietly singing as he reloaded. ''Ah don't need no teenage queen!'' _Sha-click!_ ''All Ah need's mah M-Fourteen!'' _Schick-chak!_ ''...Okay, back to work.'' So saying, he placed the weapon across the tank-cycle's seat and retrieved his leg brace. ''I wonder where the sky eyes found this lot,'' he mused. ''Don't they know Hell has a special place reserved for sellouts and collaborators?''

S577 looked down at the white blood oozing from her sundry lacerations. A shadow fell over her: when she lifted her head, the one called KK was standing right beside. ''Hold still,'' the latter said softly, sliding muscular arms around the girl's back and under her knees. Gently lifting the frail body, she reversed her course. ''That was pretty brave of you, you know that?''

This kindness was beyond anything the girl had hoped for. ''I... I just thought it wasn't fair...''

Higgins stood up as KK returned. ''Put her here,'' he said, pointing to where he had sat. His voice had changed, turned more serious and less complaining. ''The first aid kit's under the seat.''

''Thanks.'' KK bent over and withdrew a small, dented box from some crevice. ''Where did you find this lot?''

''Up by the warehouses where I left Metford and company. They said there were more, but...'' The man shook his head. ''Looks like the rest got strafed.''

''Damn.'' KK knelt and applied a stinging spray to S577's knees. ''We're taking these ones with us?''

''Do they look like they can survive on their own?'' Higgins turned his head as B303 appeared at his elbow. ''Oh, hey. Is everyone else all right?''

The second girl nodded. ''Thank you for protecting us.''

''Don't thank me,'' the cyclops replied casually. ''I look after my crew, that's all.''

The two girls exchanged a bewildered look. ''Your... crew?'' S577 echoed.

Higgins put his hands on his hips. ''As I see it, your choice is simple: you can go on ineptly trying to make it on your own... or you can work for me.''

B303 frowned. ''You want us to sell blenders..?''

''Blenders?'' Higgins snorted as KK moved up to her patient's elbows. ''Never sold a blender in my life. Everything I told that jackass was bogus, understand?''

''Then... what would we be doing?''

''Engaging in the trade of secondhand and surplus conventional arms, the supply of spare parts, ammunition and servicing tools pursuant to the above, and the administration of support training and force instruction to assorted clients. Your work will not be risk-free, prestigious or well-paying, but you can travel to exotic locations and meet interesting people.'' The grin returned. ''And _nobody_ will mess with you and get away with it.''

S577's first impulse was to refuse, to protest that the man didn't know what kind of trouble he proposed to invite upon himself, but she was beaten to the mark. ''I accept,'' B303 declared, holding her head high. ''I don't really understand what your work is, but I will learn!''

''That's one,'' said Higgins. ''Any other takers?''

S577 almost couldn't believe it: one by one, her siblings each raised a pale hand until she alone was left. ''I...'' She swallowed. ''Do you... know what you are doing?''

''I'm hiring gosta,'' Higgins said plainly. The bluntness of the statement convinced S577 that he'd known their identity perfectly well from the start. ''As long as you don't go 'boom' on us, what's the problem?''

''But the Arume... If they come after us again - ''

''That'll be their loss... Anyhow, we don't have all day. Make up your mind.'' He looked away. ''Ruslan, call Vinogradov and tell him to double-time the unloading. As soon as he's done, he's to sail for Hai Phong and get all the food and medical supplies he can... Cash up front, if that's what it takes.''

''Wow,'' KK murmured sarcastically, applying a bandage to S577's palm. ''And I thought we merchants of death were supposed to be _selfish.''_

''Yeah, well...'' Higgins scratched his ear. ''Wasn't it the Yakuza who took the initiative after the Kobe quake in '95?''

The woman raised an eyebrow. ''Sure you aren't just exploiting these kids' naivete?''

''I _did_ tell them I'm not running a charity...''

''I'll do it.'' S577 looked the man straight in the eye, interrupting the banter. ''I'll work for you.''

The one who had identified himself as 'Edsel Higgins' nodded. ''All right, then... I'm Roland Schuhart. Together with my cousin Keiko here and some good friends, I run the Eto Delo group. What's your name?''

The gosta looked down at her feet. ''I don't have one... Just a number.''

''I'll give you temp names, then.'' Schuhart rubbed his chin. ''Let's see...''

''Think fast,'' Keiko prompted. ''The rescue crew can't wait forever.''

''Hmm...'' Schuhart's one eye wandered over to his rifle. ''Okay,'' he said, pointing to B303 and then S577. ''Harrington and Richardson. Think you can remember those?''

The girls nodded.

''Good.'' The gostas' new employer climbed back into his tank-cycle. ''All aboard,'' he called. ''The rest will get their names as soon as I think of some.'' He revved the engine dramatically. ''Let's roll!''


	9. All the World's a Stage

_Part 8: All the World's a Stage_

Riding in the back of the Kettenkrad, for that seemed to be the tank-cycle's proper designation, was a bumpy, stomach-churning experience. The freshly-anointed Richardson's young and unprotected backside was entirely numb from the machine's vibrations by the time Schuhart pulled up in front of another warehouse and shut the engine off. ''Everybody out,'' he called, swinging his bad leg up with his hands and fitting the brace strut against it. Richardson was grateful for the chance to stand, and it looked as if she wasn't the only one. While stretching her arms and legs, she took a few moments to survey the scene. Large crates were stacked in several places, along with numerous oblong containers of blue, yellow or red plastic. All of the latter had a prominent 'X' shape molded into each side.

''Schuhart!''

''Nice timing, Daemon,'' the one-eyed man grunted as he carried one of the red containers to the Kettenkrad's side. ''What's the news?''

''We found Chief Inspector Zhenyuan.'' The man who had joined the group was a serious-faced African with close-cropped hair and narrowly rectangular glasses. He wore a vest like Schuhart's over his shirt and tie and had a long rifle with a blunt nose cap slung across his back. ''He's out cold - probably a concussion at best.''

''The harangue-utan himself, huh?'' Schuhart unscrewed the container's black cap, extracted the yellow nozzle nestled inside and reversed it. ''What about the Arume?''

Daemon shook his head. ''Apart from the shuttle that went after you, there's been no sign of them. The bombardment is still a stand-alone event.''

''Lucky us,'' Schuhart observed sourly, opening a cap atop the compact half-track's left side. ''What about all the civilians who fled into Shenzhen?''

''The situation's murky. I assume aid will be sent from Guangzhou or by the provincial authorities.''

''They're not getting any awards for promptness,'' said the blond man, pouring fuel all the while. ''No sign of our neighborhood marauders, I take it?''

''None.''

''What's the rest of the world saying?''

''Hear for yourself.'' Daemon produced a compact radio from his pocket and extended a long silver antenna.

_''...Parliament today Steven Gilham blasted the ruling party's passage of the seventh Emergency Powers Act, decrying the legislation as 'stimsim fantasy drafted by habitual octagon patchers.' When asked to clarify his remarks, he recommended a good cyberpunk novel... A spokesman for the People's Republic of China has refused to comment on reports that Arume forces have bombed the center of old Hong Kong, allegedly in response to the rocket attack in North Hong Kong yesterday... In Karachi, ministers of Pakistan's interim government are meeting to - ''_

Daemon switched the radio off. ''That's all.''

''The revolution will not be publicized.'' Schuhart closed up the Kettenkrad's left tank and carried the red jug around to the right. ''Listen, I need to make some calls and get these girls set up. Can you drive the tractor over to Nereus for me?''

''Certainly.''

''Thanks.'' Schuhart recovered his weapon, slung it over his shoulder and clipped a blocky electronic device to the front of his vest. ''One of the steering brakes feels a little loose,'' he advised, placing the dented helmet on his head but leaving the strap undone, ''so go easy on the turns.''

''I'll keep that in mind.'' Daemon climbed aboard, started the engine and drove off without more ado.

''All right,'' Schuhart sighed as the trailer's rattle died away. ''Follow me, everyone.'' A line formed behind him as he began to walk, Richardson, Harrington and the rest following one by one. The man lifted the electronic thing as he went, pushing a series of buttons before holding it beside his head. ''Hi, Philippe? Yeah, it's me... We're okay. Still sorting through the rubble, but the apocalypse has been deferred. I just wanted to let you know that the goods are fine and we'll deliver as contracted... No worries... Sure, we can do that. Let me dig through what's left of my desk and I'll call you back with an estimate... Of course. You too... 'Bye.'' He let the rubber-cased brick fall to his side. ''Whoo... Thank goodness for satphones.''

''Um... Mister Schuhart?''

''Yes, Harrington?''

''That man back there works for you, yes?''

''Daemon's head of the intel division. He's a pretty cool guy - done a lot of traveling and speaks five languages... Any other questions?''

''What were you saying about marauders?''

''Oh, that... Yesterday afternoon, an Arume dignitary came down to the north city to do business with a few government types. As they were wrapping up, some jackasses fired a rocket-propelled grenade at them - supposedly nobody got hurt, but I doubt any of them took it kindly... Then, while you and your friends were floating down on us this fine morning, said jackasses fired another RPG at one of the sky eyes' big carrier ships. Now those jackasses are running loose somewhere around here, and we don't like that. There are enough destabilizing elements in town without the competition.'' Schuhart suddenly made a right turn and walked into an oblong single-story building. ''Last night we sent a team out to see if we could find them,'' he continued, holding the door open for the gosta procession. ''Didn't catch the people, but we did uncover a hideout and some of their stuff out in the ruins of the abandoned coastal district.''

Harrington was paying close attention to the narrative. ''Do you know who they are?''

''Not yet - they weren't stupid enough to leave any ID lying around, of course.'' The big man opened another door and led the girls into a long room with a skylight and a series of low tables down the middle. ''Pick a seat, any seat... The guns we recovered were all Egyptian made, but there were also a bunch of documents in Japanese. Both could be red herrings.''

''Egyptian?'' As far as Richardson could remember, this was the first time that particular girl had spoken all day.

''Yeah, Egypt. You know, pyramids, hieroglyphs and Gamal Nasser?'' Schuhart's one eye squinted at their blank expressions. ''Guess you don't know. Ah, well... Sit tight for a minute and I'll bring out some food.''

''But...'' Richardson hesitated a moment, then pressed on. ''Isn't it more important that we be helping the rescuers?''

''Every man and woman I can spare is out there searching already.'' The cyclops cocked his head. ''No offense, but there's not much you can realistically accomplish on empty stomachs. A peg-leg like me can't go scrambling over rubble, either... No, you get something in your bellies and recover your strength for a bit, and then maybe we'll rotate you in to replace some of the guys coming off duty.'' With that, he exited.

Harrington and Richardson looked at one another. ''He seems... strange,'' the former ventured.

Richardson nodded. ''How do you think he lost his eye?''

The gosta across from her shivered in her chair. ''I don't want to think about that.''

* * *

''I don't want to think about that.''

''You might have to,'' Elaqebil pressed, trying to keep her voice sympathetic. ''If they break off the negotiations now - ''

''It's all over,'' Renaril finished, staring through the window morosely. Outside, the edge of this brave new world curved away into the distance, a thin blue glow along the fringe giving way to the blackness of empty space. ''I'll know soon enough,'' she sighed. ''Their representative will be here any minute.''

''You sent another shuttle?'' Elaqebil raised an eyebrow. ''That's kind of risky right now, isn't it?''

''It's safer than going down there myself.'' The group commander shot a glance at her companion. ''Funny.''

''What is?''

''Back at the academy, you were the one who always told me I shouldn't run away from risky chances.''

''Was I?'' There came a sheepish laugh. ''Serves me right.''

_''Group Commander Renaril, Colonel Kang has arrived.''_ The voice from the communicator dropped to a furtive whisper. _''She doesn't look happy.''_

''I understand,'' the Arume officer replied dejectedly. ''I'll be right there.''

As Renaril turned to leave, she felt a hand on her shoulder. ''Hey,'' said Elaqebil. ''Don't forget the other thing I told you in school, all right?''

''Other thing..?''

Elaqebil gave the younger woman a reassuring pat. ''You'll go far, kid.''

* * *

The food turned out to be a rather salty dried meat product which Schuhart referred to as 'jerky' and seemingly regarded as less than optimal, accompanied by mugs of water. Richardson was grateful of it regardless of its quality.

''Now that you all have your names,'' the man himself was saying, ''we need to figure out where in the company you'll be working. Once things have quieted down around here, we'll see about running some aptitude - whoops.'' The 'satphone' on his vest had begun to emit a shrill beeping. ''Just a second... Yes? Oh, Chloe - what news? ...I thought so. How much?'' There was a whistle. ''Nice... Well, their loss. Yes, I think you could tell them that... Very good. Thanks for the tip... Talk to you later. Bye-bye.''

Richardson watched the proceedings carefully. _This must be part of his work,_ she thought as he thumbed a combination of buttons, _but what exactly is he doing?_

''KK, it's me. London just called - sounds like the Czechs are about to put a block of Vzor Fifty-Eights up for grabs. We can get 'em now for the asking price, or hazard a bidding war against bin Salaad... I'm thinking we can ship a batch to Kiev and let Blue Falcon pick up some real contracts, maybe lay up the remainder until those DDR AKs from Helsinki are sold off... I know it could be a while, but this is quality stuff. I'll see what Daemon and Nereus think... Yeah, the girls are fine. Keep an eye on Metford and beware of low-flying Winnebagoes. Catch you later.'' _Beep!_

''Mister Schuhart?''

''Yes, Richardson?''

''Is a lot of your work like that?''

Schuhart blinked. ''What, talking to people on the far side of the world about glorified yard sales? Well, that's part of it, but meeting face to face is important too.''

''Oh.''

''By the way...''

''Yes?''

''Could you not call me 'Mister Schuhart' all the time? Makes me feel old.''

''Yes... Master.''

''Ack.'' The one-eyed man made a wry face. ''Even worse.''

The one-time living bomb felt a little frustrated. ''Father?''

''I was never one for having kids... Eh, how about an uncle? All in favor of 'Uncle Roland' raise your - ''

He was rudely interrupted by a loud explosion.

* * *

''I'm sorry.''

''You _will_ be sorry if you don't pull yourself together,'' Kang growled unsympathetically, not looking at all impressed by her first visit to an alien spacecraft. ''Bombing the entire city is _not_ an appropriate response. What were you _thinking?''_

A shiver ran down Renaril's spine every time the furious colonel put extra emphasis on a word. _Dear First Mother,_ she thought, _please kill me now and get it over with!_

''Answer me!''

''It...'' The Arume couldn't look her guest in the face. ''It wasn't me.''

''Why should I believe you?''

The coldness in the other's voice assured Renaril that she was in very real danger of having her wish granted. Why had secluding herself alone with this forime in her own cabin seemed like such a good idea? ''It's true that I am partly to blame.'' Her words came out in a desperate rush. ''I didn't think to explicitly forbid use of special weapons in my area of jurisdiction.''

_''What!?_ Are you saying your own subordinates - ''

''No! It was the Japan branch, they...''

Kang let out an exasperated sigh as the sentence faded off into an unintelligible whimper. ''Sit down,'' she ordered, motioning towards the circular bed in the corner. ''Take a deep breath and start from the beginning.''

* * *

''Ouch...'' Schuhart pushed himself off the floor with a grimace. ''Everyone okay? Anyone hurt?''

Richardson and most of the other gosta had instinctively rolled out of their seats and pressed themselves against the cold cement of the room's floor upon hearing the blast. She was relieved when nobody volunteered any injuries. ''What... was that?''

''Trouble.'' The man slipped the rifle off his shoulder and into his hands. ''Stay there.''

''Is it the Arume?''

''If it is, they're even slower on the uptake than - '' Schuhart's eye narrowed to a slit. ''Someone's coming. Get down.'' Moving as quietly as his leg brace would permit, he made his way to the door and took up a position beside it as thumping footsteps sounded just outside. There was a moment of silence, then the door flew open as if kicked with great force. Schuhart's left-handedness had placed him on the hinge side, and the face of the door slammed right into him. Over the clatter of Schuhart's gun hitting the floor, Richardson's ears made out a faint metallic _tink-tink_.

Schuhart twisted away from the door, covering his ears. _''Flashbang!''_

Richardson squeezed her eyes shut. Suddenly she couldn't hear anything.

* * *

''Early this morning I was woken by a call from an aide working at our Japanese division,'' Renaril explained, the cooling of Kang's temper bolstering her self-confidence. ''She told me that forime there had provided intelligence about the attackers from yesterday... Turkic insurgents, operating out of the ruins of coastal Hong Kong. She asked if I objected to her office pursuing the matter further.''

Kang, leaning against the opposite wall of the cabin with her arms folded, didn't look convinced. ''Go on.''

''I assumed she simply meant that the Japan branch would continue to investigate, so I told her I had no objections... Then I went back to sleep, until one of my own staff woke me again and told me that your city was being bombarded by us and that our comrades in Japan were saying I had authorized it. She wanted to know why I hadn't informed her.''

''You hadn't told her because you didn't know yourself,'' the Chinese woman prompted.

''Yes. I rolled out of bed and demanded an immediate withdrawal of the gosta carriers when I found out, but the damage is already severe...''

''And after that..?''

The group commander began to fidget. ''Well... Mostly I've been pestering the Japan office for more detailed information and - and trying to think of a way to explain this.''

''I see... Wait.'' Kang looked visibly taken aback. ''That's all? You haven't sent aid to the city? Anything for the casualties?''

''I... assumed your government would want to take charge of that.''

Renaril let out a panicked yelp as Kang stepped across the room, clamped her hands on the Arume's shoulders and bent until the pair were almost nose to nose. ''Do you realize,'' the latter snarled, ''that we have been sitting and waiting _all day_ because someone up here ordered us to hold back!? The city was still dangerous, we were told, so we should just stand aside and watch while our injured and displaced citizens were looked after by your _superior_ methods! And now _you_ tell me not only that you don't know what your own _comrades_ are up to, but that _nothing_ is being done for the victims?'' Kang straightened. ''Stop feeling sorry for yourself and get on the radio. Either send the help you should dispatched have hours ago, or clear Beijing to send theirs. _Move it.''_

''I - yes... Yes, you're right.'' Renaril pushed herself to her feet and went to her desk. ''I'll call for both. Our aid and yours.''

* * *

''...Me?''

Richardson blinked. There was still an indistinct afterimage burned into her retinas, as well as a loud ringing in each ear. Looking around in a daze, she found Schuhart looking at her worriedly, a rust-splotched pistol in his hand. ''I said,'' he repeated, looking as though he were speaking quite loudly, ''can you hear me at all?''

The man's voice came to her only dimly, as if from a long distance. ''Yes,'' the girl replied, barely able to make out her own speech. ''Yes!''

''Good! Check the others for injuries!'' As he turned around, the gosta saw that he had a rifle - also rusted - hanging under his arm by a ragged strap. This one was shorter overall than his last model, itself returned to its former position on its owner's back, with a long magazine underneath that curved forwards at a steep angle. Two more leaned against the wall by the door, next to the three dead men piled just inside the entryway. ''I'll be right back!''

* * *

''It's done,'' Renaril breathed. ''I sent everything I could get clearance for. The first flight will land in forty minutes.''

''Where exactly?''

''North Hong Kong, near the - ''

''Not good enough,'' Kang barked. ''You have to send them into the old city, where the damage is!''

''But it's still dangerous there - they'll be attacked!''

''Group Commander,'' the colonel said, quietly now, ''is there something else you haven't told me?''

''No - that is, I thought you knew already since your government has been in communication with us...''

''The news didn't reach as far down as my stratum, it seems. Has there been another attack?''

''Two,'' the Arume answered. ''First, one of the gosta carriers was fired on while over the city this morning. It sustained minor damage... More importantly, a group of the gosta it was deploying must have been affected by the disturbance. They failed to explode and reached the surface... Gosta only know how to destroy themselves: they're programmed with basic knowledge so that they can follow orders, but that's all. Without control, they are extremely dangerous.''

''So now there are volatile clones wandering around the ruins too?''

''Probably.'' Renaril swallowed. ''When these gosta were detected, the fleet sent a shuttle down with a team of forime troops from our second layer defense corps... The renegades had divided into two groups. One was destroyed from the air, but the second had encountered some forime on the ground. The troops were killed by them, and the shuttle destroyed.''

Kang put a palm to her forehead. ''Inadequate communication is going to be the death of us. Do you have any leads on the attackers?''

''Only what the Japan branch told me... It seems they established a working relationship faster than we have.''

''We'll have to catch up,'' said Kang with determination. ''Is there any sort of command center we can use? Somewhere to manage information from?''

''Yes, a small one two decks up. It should be empty right now.''

''Then let's get to work.'' Kang nodded towards the door. ''Helping the casualties takes priority over all else. If we move quickly and tell Beijing this mess happened because of a communication error, they might settle for an eloquent apology and an offer of restitution.''

Renaril stood, albeit hesitantly. ''Why are you still helping me?'' she asked, reaching for the door controls. ''Yesterday you said - ''

''Since my superiors seem content to meekly do as you tell them, I've no choice.'' Kang stepped into the corridor briskly. ''You'll be replaced if you fail this, am I right?''

''Probably, yes...''

''Your successor might be someone more competent, but she might also be a tyrant. You _are_ inexperienced and childish, but you at least seem to mean well.''

The assessment wasn't unfair, but it still stung Renaril as she led the way to the nearest elevator. ''In that case, I must do my best to avoid mistakes.''

''Were you trained to handle civil emergencies?''

''Yes.'' The alien officer glanced at her companion as the elevator doors slid apart. ''You?''

''Disaster relief is part of a soldier's duty,'' Kang affirmed, ''and I spent eight months advising AU peacekeepers in Liberia. I've learned a few tricks.''

As the elevator gently hummed around her, Renaril felt a sense of real hope for the first time since waking.

* * *

''...Thing around?''

''You know me.'' Richardson recognized the second of the incoming speakers as Schuhart. ''I never pass up a free AK... Anyway, it saves me the trouble of getting one from inventory.'' His head appeared in the doorway, followed by the rest of him. ''How's everyone?''

The gosta straightened without thinking. ''Nobody is hurt.''

''Good... This - '' Schuhart motioned to the silver-haired man in coveralls who stood behind him. '' - is Nereus, chief of our machine shop. There's been a change of plan, so I'll have to pass you off to him for a while. We have a submarine coming in with cargo. That cargo needs to be unloaded in a hurry so that we can send the sub out to get supplies.''

''But where will you be?'' Harrington asked.

''Dealing with this.'' The one-eyed man indicated the corpses of the attackers. ''Some of the others got away - looks like we aren't rid of them yet.''

''How? I mean, what will you do?''

''Here's your first lesson - ready?'' Schuhart looked over the assembled gosta. ''The successful arms dealer is polite, prompt and professional. Good manners can save you a lot of trouble, but there will always be someone stupid, desperate or just damn cocky enough to think he can take what's yours. When that happens, you have to make a stand... No survivors.''

''You mean to fight them?'' Richardson interjected gingerly.

A mean grin crossed Schuhart's scarred face. ''We'll send 'em to Hell, and their Helwans with them.''

Nereus, having sat down at the table with the girls in the meantime, raised an eyebrow. ''Was that a pun?''

''No, a pun would be more like... 'We're gonna put 'em outta their Misr-y.'''

''You're awful.'' Nereus waved towards the door. ''Away with you.''

Schuhart nodded and went to the door, stopping to pick up one of the rusty rifles. ''Might as well get the kids started on the nitty-gritty while you're waiting,'' he remarked, setting it on the table. ''Oh, I got another one - 'Break out the funny hats: it's Maadi Gras!'''

The newcomer shook his head as Schuhart exited, closing the door behind him. ''I can't believe that man sometimes... Well, shall we get started?''

Harrington nodded. ''Yes, please.''

''All right.'' Nereus picked up the degraded firearm and held it out for all to see. ''There are five hundred million guns on this planet,'' he began. ''A hundred million of them look like this.''

It is well known among biologists that such animals as geese exhibit a behavioral phenomenon called filial imprinting, in which the young of the species bond to objects which get their attention. Had a biologist been present, he might have drawn a comparison with these gosta: Richardson and the rest were psychological blank slates, concerned with little beyond their own survival. Certainly they felt little care for the reality that their new way of life heralded the dispensing of considerable destruction, differing from the old in little save the lack of an obligation towards suicide.

In the next few days, their commitment to Roland Schuhart and the way of the arms dealer would be put to the test.


	10. White Man's Burden

_Part 9: "Take up the white man's burden!"_

_Control Center 25, Section L-338, Magnanimous Hyacinth_

_March 14th, 2016_

Renaril awoke with a start. She was still in her seat at the center of the room's row of consoles, with the shape of the keyboard's edge imprinted into the underside of each slender forearm. The realization that she'd fallen asleep on the job mortified her – what would Kang think?

_Kang..?_

The colonel wasn't there. Only her uniform jacket remained, draped over the Arume's shoulders. Renaril remembered sending her aides to bed, but realized with a pang of fresh guilt that she'd forgotten to arrange accommodations for the forime officer. "Hyacinth," she said aloud, flagging the huge vessel's mainframe AI, "have there been any updates in my jurisdiction since last check-in?"

_"Two events,"_ the computer replied softly. _"In the first event, five military ocean craft of the Russian Federation have entered the zone designated 'Hong Kong operations area'. Their stated intent is to monitor the situation and contribute humanitarian assistance if requested. One of the vessels is presently docked in the port of Macau... In the second event, King Frederik of Denmark has transmitted a message addressed to you."_

"I'll read it later," Renaril sighed, certain the item was a condemnation of yesterday's fiasco. At least no new crises seemed to have sprung up. "Where is Colonel Kang?"

_"The colonel is – "_

"Right behind you."

"Eep..!"

"Rise and shine," Kang continued dryly. When Renaril spun her chair around, she saw that the other woman's arms were laden with food canisters. "I procured these for you and the staff."

"Thank you," the Arume replied absently. "Have you slept at all?"

"No, but I'm used to – " Kang broke off to stifle a yawn. "...It," she finished weakly.

"Nice try." Renaril pushed herself out of her seat. "Let's go back to my cabin. You can rest while I watch the screens for a bit."

* * *

It was cloudy on the ground when Richardson woke up, a consequence of no obvious stimulus. She was right where she was supposed to be, stretched out on a mattress under a long awning. Looking to either side, she could see her sisters lined up in the same fashion. Sitting up, she also saw that a frail girl – dubbed 'Astra' by Schuhart – had secured company for the night in the form of Keiko. A twinge of envy ran through Richardson as she saw how the other girl was pressed up against the large woman's torso, before a noise from behind distracted her. Twisting around, she discovered Harrington rubbing her eyes. When their gazes met, Richardson motioned for silence and crept to the foot of her mattress.

* * *

Renaril had heard the expression 'out like a light' before, but she had never seen it so readily applicable: Kang had barely finished removing her shoes and laid back on the group commander's bed before her body relaxed, her chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm. Stretching out with her hands behind her head had the side effect of pulling out all the folds and creases in her shirt, causing the white fabric to hug the curves of her upper body. However much Renaril tried to focus on her duties, she couldn't stop sneaking guilty glances towards the bed.

At least she had that luxury to cheer her up. While all was quiet on her own front, other commanders were running into trouble – in large part, she suspected, because of yesterday. The already high tensions were beginning to reach critical mass: four countries had so far moved to a hostile stance against the Arume, and more looked set to follow them. At least nobody was actually _fighting_ yet.

* * *

Padding along on bare feet in silence, Richardson and Harrington made their way between two warehouses. There was no real need for stealth, apart from consideration of those still sleeping... And perhaps a wish to be the first to achieve what they had set out to do, ahead of any competition. The gosta's sensitive ears picked up a sound from the left: someone was whistling snatches of a tune. Signaling the change of course with a wave of her hand, she swung towards it.

_Pchht-pchht-pchht-pchht-pchht!_

That sound was a strange one to the girls, somewhere between a snap and a hiss. Their confusion was interrupted by Schuhart's voice: "Oh, not _again!"_ Intrigued, the pair hustled forwards until they came to an open space – a 'parking lot' according to Richardson's pre-programmed vocabulary. The man himself was standing beside a cluttered folding table, opposite a long concrete wall with a series of stubby wooden posts arranged before it.

Harrington announced the duo's arrival. "Uncle Roland?"

"You're up early," he remarked. "Something wrong?"

"No," Richardson supplied. As she approached the table, she saw that Schuhart's weapons from the previous day lay upon it. Their owner was currently struggling with one of the rifles taken off the Arume-allied soldiers: now squinting into a slot in its side, now thumping it with his fist.

"Just wanted to hang out, eh?" _Schick... Tink-tink-tink!_ "Fine with me." _Snick-chak!_ "Aha!"

"What..?"

"Sticky mag – happens all the time."

"Are you... training?"

"Nah, just trying out one of our new overlords' toys." Fitting the stock against his shoulder, he snapped off another five shots at the distant posts. "Can't say I'm impressed."

"No..?"

Schuhart nodded. "Boomslang Ordnance doesn't have an equivalent in local universe, but this XM-Eighteen of theirs is basically an LR-Three-Hundred with a piggybacked gas piston. I frankly doubt it can be competitive on the planetside market." Noticing the girls' blank expressions, he shrugged. "Anyway, I thought I'd snap a suppressor on it – " He indicated the fat tube at the end of the barrel. " – and see how quiet it runs."

"Oh." Richardson thought for a moment. "What do you mean by competitive?"

"I mean it wouldn't sell very well. Even if the sky eyes ignored the patent concerns, the market is saturated with cheaper variations on the same theme... But I don't think they're interested in selling them – more likely they'll just give 'em away to collaborators and proxies. We'll be seeing a lot more of these either way."

"What about us?" Harrington asked. "Do you think the Arume will come back here?"

"Yeah, about that..." Schuhart set the rifle aside and scratched his head. "They'll almost certainly be back – the questions are, how many of them and when? Having the Russian navy on our front porch might encourage them to cut back on the deadly force, but I wouldn't be surprised if the sky eyes decided to try making an example of us."

"An example," Richardson echoed. She didn't like the sound of that.

The big man nodded. "On the one hand, they're trying to cover their butts by claiming that the bombing was an accident. On the other hand, they're simeltaneously claiming that there are insurgents running around Hong Kong, and they're not making any distinction between we who try to keep the peace and those yahoos with the Egyptian hardware. On the third hand, nobody seems to know who's actually supposed to be in charge here – there's no police, no fire services... Even the PLA garrison got wiped out. Local primary infrastructure is pretty much gone, nearly the entire population of Kowloon and outlying districts have died or fled north, and now we arms dealers are the biggest business in town."

"Kow-what?"

"Here." Schuhart took out a paper map and unfolded it over the guns on the table. "We're here," he said, pointing to the lower edge of a large peninsula. "The landward side of old Kowloon. This was a pretty dense area before the rise in sea levels, not so much nowadays. The cargo you kids helped unload yesterday was coming up through the channel here, between Lantau and Hong Kong Islands... To the west we have another channel running past the old International Airport – only traffic that can land there now is seaplanes. Beyond that is the Pearl River and Macau, where the Russians are hanging out. Up the Pearl is Guangzhou: a lot of our civilian survivors will probably end up there... Over the hills to our north are the bulk of the New Territories and then North Hong Kong, what the old-timers still call Shenzhen. Past that is solid PRC territory... Right now Shenzhen and the upper New Territories are de facto Arume turf, and that means they can come at us from pretty much any direction. Land, air, sea, you name it."

"But why?" Harrington demanded. "Why would the Arume want to attack this city again?"

"It's not about the city," Schuhart answered sourly. "It's about their image. Who's going to take them seriously if they bomb a population center and can't pacify what's left? Odds are that they don't even care who we are as long as stomping on us makes them look tough."

Richardson shivered. "And... if they do attack?"

"We can fight them on the beaches, we can fight them on the streets. I'm not going sit quietly by and let my crew and my assets fall into their hands." Schuhart picked up the captured rifle, pulled out the magazine and pushed out a large pin, causing the top half to pivot open. "Realistically we'll need to be ready to fall back to Lantau if we can't hold them here. The island isn't heavily built up and the terrain favors the defender... The big weak point right now is supplies. We have motor barges running over to Macau and back, but I don't doubt the Arume would try starving us with a blockade if they thought it would spare them a stand-up fight."

"What would you do then?" Richardson hoped the answer wasn't cannibalism.

Schuhart winked. "Already taken care of... So," he went on, folding up the map and going back to the rifle, "that's where we stand. I'd rather not fight if it can be helped, but I suspect it can't be. We'll keep looking for survivors for another day or two, but the priority from here on is going to be defense." _Pchht-pchht-pchht-pchht-pchht!_ "Any other questions?"

"Uncle Roland..."

"Yes, Harrington?"

"How do you feel about the Arume? You talk about fighting them, but you don't seem to hate them..."

"Hating 'em wouldn't do me much good," the arms dealer said philosophically. "They don't bring much to the table that we haven't seen before, you know? Imperialists from overseas, imperialists from another universe – what's the difference, really? They come and try to impress with their fancy technology and their superior culture while making lots of noise about bettering us, but in the end it's not about _us._ It's about what they can _get_ from us. Labor, raw materials... I guess women would also be a resource for the sky eyes."

"Yes..." Richardson knew her own makers well enough to understand that. "By the way," she added, acting on a random thought, "what was that music?"

"Hm?"

"You were whistling something when we came," the gosta clarified. "What was it?"

"Oh, that... It's a song called _Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner_."

Harrington blinked. "Headless?"

"Yeah... See, in the song Roland is a Norwegian mercenary fighting in the Congo in the sixties – he's so good at his job that the Americans hire another merc to kill him, but he comes back to life and seeks revenge."

The girls exchanged a look: it seemed like a rather macabre subject for musical treatment. "Well," Harrington opined with a nervous giggle, "it's good that you haven't lost _your_ head, Uncle Roland."

"True that," said Schuhart affably. "I do have a Thompson, though. Remind me to bring it out some time."

Only then did Richardson, distracted by one development after another, remember why she and Harrington had snuck out here in the first place. "Actually, Uncle Roland, we had a request..."

"Go ahead."

Richardson squared her shoulders and tried her best to look solemn. "Please teach us how to fight."

* * *

"Nnngh..."

Renaril quickly fixed her eyes on her console screen as Kang stirred. "You're awake?" she inquired softly.

"Mm..." Kang sat up. "Four hours. That should be enough for now."

Renaril didn't think it was, but chose not to press the point. "Nothing much has happened," she reported. "You could sleep longer."

"I'd rather not." Renaril felt the colonel's presence behind her. "Is that my service record?"

"Er..." _Should have closed the file,_ the Arume thought frantically.

Kang didn't seem to have a problem with her reading material. "What are you looking so evasive for?"

"Nothing," Renaril said quickly, flailing about for a diversion. "Um... What does 'double comrade' mean?"

"It's a literal translation," the forime explained. "The word traditionally used for a communist comrade is now also applied to homosexuals."

"Oh, then... Wait." Renaril looked over her shoulder. "You're..?"

"It's an open secret." Kang shrugged. "I assumed someone would have told you by now."

Renaril felt strangely relieved by the revelation. "So we have something in common," she said optimistically.

"Perhaps." Kang sounded unenthused. "Group Commander, I need to go down to the surface."

"Eh..?"

"I'm a field officer, not a traffic controller. I can better help you when I'm able to see what's actually happening on the front."

* * *

"How's it going, Nereus?"

"It could be better," the older man grunted from his perch atop the green open-bed truck parked just inside the warehouse. "Losing half my tools didn't help... Almost done with this unit, though."

Schuhart nodded. "Keep at it."

"Before you go, want to pass that M-Two up here?"

"Sure." Motioning for Harrington and Richardson to stand back, the one-eyed man gingerly lifted a long rectangular assembly from a nearby bench and hauled it to the truck. "Whoo," he sighed, handing the item up and going back for the thick barrel. "These fifty-cals are heavy even in pieces. You sure that pintle is bolted down solid?"

"You doubt my skill?" Nereus waved his socket wrench aggressively. "How about a mini-pintle for a Bren at the rear?"

"If it won't get in the way of the passengers, sure." Schuhart cocked his head. "Y'know, it seems like just yesterday that I was plowing straight through enemy fire in a crate like this."

"Don't kid yourself," the other man snorted. "Your Hilux wasn't anywhere near the weight of this thing until we welded all that scrap onto it."

"I could tell – driving the Kettenkrad is paradise compared to steering that road-cow," Schuhart opined. "Anyway, it's good that the trucks survived. You're putting the DShK aboard the other two-and-a-half?"

"That's what I assumed."

"Fine... Lemme get the girls back to KK and then I'll come over and look at the plans."

"Right." Nereus ducked out of view. "See you in a bit."

* * *

"You're sure about this?" Renaril fretted. "If anything happened to you – "

"Stop that," Kang muttered as the pair entered the _Hyacinth_'s forward hangar. "It's undignified."

There were no shuttles docked, only a single cargo transport. It was considerably larger than the aforementioned craft: comparable to a pair of articulated trucks parked side by side in Kang's estimation.

"It doesn't matter," Renaril asserted. "There aren't any personnel transports available."

Too late: the colonel had already spotted the transport's unwary pilot going over her final checklists and started to close in.

* * *

"You really did it." Sauer looked impressed. "What did he say?"

"He looked surprised," Richardson replied in a loud mutter, the only practical way to carry on a private conversation in a crowded space while lukewarm water noisily cascaded over one's body. "Then he said he'd think about it."

"Well," the other gosta offered, "good luck."

Richardson nodded, moving so that the fullest part of the stream from the showerhead was over her back. On her other side, Harrington was doing the same. "Look," the latter called. "Astra is still clinging to the pack leader."

"The what?"

"Keiko," Sauer interjected, motioning towards the woman who towered over all the gosta. Just as described, little Astra was still at her side. "As I told Harrington, someone saw her with the others while you were outside and said she looked like a mother animal leading cubs."

"I see." Richardson turned around, lifting her face so that the water splashed over it for a few moments. "Our... pack leader is very pretty."

"Isn't she?" Sauer agreed. "Webley has already proposed to her."

"Wha – !?" Harrington spat out the water she'd nearly inhaled. "When did she do that?"

"As soon as she woke up," Sauer chortled. "Keiko just laughed and said she liked hers bigger."

"Pfft," Richardson snorted, eying Schuhart's shapely cousin. "She must be fearless, to not even cover herself in front of us."

"Mm." Harrington reached behind her back, trying to wipe away lingering soap residue without great success. "Um, Richardson..?"

"Here." The girl addressed placed her palm against the other's back and moved it in circles. "Is that – ah!" Suddenly her arm was numb almost up to the elbow. Harrington had gone rigid, her back arched. She wasn't breathing. "Keiko," Richardson cried, whipping her arm back, "something's wrong!"

The contact broken, Harrington went limp. She would have fallen smack on her face if Keiko hadn't stepped in to catch her. "Whoa," the one adult in the showers exclaimed. "What happened?"

"I don't know. I touched her and then – "

"I felt you," Harrington murmured, her voice almost inaudible over the spraying water. "I felt everything you felt, saw everything you saw." She turned her head towards Richardson. "I don't understand, but... I want to feel it again."

"Oh boy," Keiko sighed.

* * *

Whatever else she might think of them, Kang couldn't deny that the Arume at least knew how to fabricate a decent tent. Walking through the town of Yuen Long, both sides of the street lined with the blue-on-white assemblies, she felt a little relieved that the aliens appeared to be making a real effort to accommodate the devastated peninsula's displaced citizens. If only their conduct in other fields were up to such a standard!

More important right now were the reactions of the victims. Many of those who poked their heads out or passed Kang by as she walked looked as if they were still in a profound fugue. Perhaps that was for the better, if it kept them from panicking or stirring up trouble when she was so ill-equipped to handle it. The priority was for them to receive basic necessities and basic necessities they had. If life were kind enough to put the vicious surprises on hold for a while, the task of rebuilding their lives would come before long...

"Excuse me, excuse me..." A man was trying to get her attention. He was of average height and rather thin, his clothes rumpled as if he had slept in them. When she stopped to look at him, he approached carefully. "Excuse me," he said again, not so loud now. "The army sent you, right?"

"Technically, yes." Kang braced herself for an impossible request or a litany of complaints. "How can I help you, er..?"

"Lee, Metford Lee. I owned a restaurant in old Kowloon." Lee quickly looked around. "I wanted to ask you, what is the government going to do about Schuhart?"

"About who..?"

"You don't know?" The man looked worried. "That's not good – I'm certain the aliens will bomb him again if you don't stop them."

"Who is he?"

"I don't really know him in a personal way," Lee admitted. "I think he's an American. He was a regular customer at my place, a very good customer. He said he worked for a trading company... But yesterday, after the exploding girls stopped coming, I found him giving orders to a lot of Russian men with guns and military clothing. These men were rescuing injured people from the damaged buildings and driving them to safer places outside the city. Because I wasn't badly hurt, Schuhart asked me to help treat the wounded and accompany the next group being evacuated."

"You agreed?"

"It was all I could do... Everything was fine until after he dropped us at the safe point, when an alien ship appeared. It fired at something in the hills and caused an explosion, then flew over us and into the city itself. We heard shooting and another explosion, and then more men with guns came. There was a woman as well: she told me the ship attacked Schuhart and they blew it up." Lee's tone of narration had become quite excited. "She talked about it as if it were perfectly ordinary, can you believe that?"

"What happened to you afterward?"

"Eventually the armed people left and the aliens came and brought us to Yuen Long. That's all."

"Schuhart and these paramilitaries were evacuating civilians from the city," Kang repeated, "and they claimed to have engaged and destroyed an Arume craft. You haven't told anyone else about this?"

"I don't trust the aliens," Lee said bluntly. "I had to wait until someone from the army or the government came."

"And that's all you know? Nothing about their motives or intentions?"

"Nothing... But," the surviving proprietor added brightly, "Schuhart gave me these." He produced a satellite telephone handset and a scrap of paper from under his jacket. "I was supposed to call this number if the aliens gave us trouble."

"Thank you," Kang answered automatically, accepting the proffered items. Ignoring her growing feeling of surreality, she looked at the number scrawled on the paper. The calling code indicated that the intended recipient was another satphone: a smart choice, hard to trace or tap and able to function even in war zones. Standard procedure had routines for handling a find like this, but standard procedure was absent without leave. Doing her best to ignore Lee's anticipatory expression, she powered up the handset and keyed in the number with her thumb.

* * *

"A recipient telepath, you say?"

"Yes," Keiko confirmed as the gosta in question looked on in nervous silence. "It seems that Harrington is particularly... sensitive to Richardson's input. We have no idea how or why it happened, but the effect is undeniable."

"Huh." Schuhart went back to his clipboard. "Well, don't overdo it."

Keiko grit her teeth. "Roland, try to at least look a _little_ surprised."

"KK, right now the only things that would surprise me are – " The cyclops was interrupted by the ringing of his phone. "Hello?"

* * *

Despite Lee's story, Kang found the American English voice on the other end incongruous. "I want to talk to the leader of the militia operating in the destroyed districts," she said plainly.

_"Who's asking?"_

"Colonel Kang of the People's Liberation Army, on behalf of Group Commander Renaril of the Sino-Arume liaison."

_"Et tu, comrade?"_ Suddenly the man's tone was one of weary disappointment. _"Well, what can the box-cannon man do for you today?"_

Kang closed her eyes in defeat: there would be no convenient explanation for this problem. _I have met the enemy, and he is my friend._


	11. Sonderfrauen und Sonderkraftfahrzeuge

_Part 10: Sonderfrauen und Sonderkraftfahrzeuge_

Anton Zozulya was standing on the dock when the commandeered runabout pulled in, the improvised white flag at the stern snapping about in a stiff breeze. Kang had never met the man in person, but she knew his face from several mugshots. _Ex-VDV,_ her memory supplied automatically. _Commended for bravery in Chechnya. Became involved in arms dealing after leaving the military. Supposed to be a big player in the Asian weapons market._

Zozulya's presence didn't bode well, despite the smile on his face. "Welcome to our humble hell-hole," he said in accented English, kneeling to tie up the boat's docklines. "The commissar will be here any minute."

Kang kept a wary eye on the Russian as she climbed onto the dock. "Commissar?"

"That would be me, if the label I picked up in old Tokyo is still circulating."

Zozulya half-turned. "So it would. You're quick."

"Didn't want to keep the lady waiting." The approaching man shrugged. "I'll take it from here, Woodpecker. Thanks."

Zozulya cast a roguish wink at Kang and departed, leaving her alone with the second man. "Well," said the latter, "here's Roland Schuhart at your service."

"Is that your name now? I suppose it's less generic than the old one."

"So it is," Schuhart agreed. "C'mon, we'd better not stand around in the open."

He set off towards the sheds at the landward end of the dock, and Kang followed. Seeing Schuhart nearly crippled like this hurt her more than she expected, especially given his past record: he'd already been shot in the forearm and cut by flying shrapnel when the Chinese officer first met him, and the man had shrugged off a buckshot wound to the leg and a slash across the face not long after. In the interval since their last encounter, however, he'd somehow lost an eye and a fingertip, been shot through the palm of his left hand and evidently taken so much leg damage that he couldn't walk without artificial support. Maybe the colonel was better off not knowing what other scars might be hidden under his clothes... And yet he limped along, looking downright bizarre with his dented Stahlhelm and his broomhandle Mauser and his Thompson submachine gun, as if none of this bothered him in the least.

"Schuhart," Kang asked on impulse, pronouncing the unaccustomed name hesitantly, "why the Guomindang look?"

"You _would_ ask." Schuhart sounded amused. "Anyone else would be saying, 'Dude, you a Nazi gangster or what?' ...Actually, it was pretty random. The steel pot's blocked a few pistol rounds already and a couple of the kids are training with my regular rifle just now."

"And the box cannon?"

"Dug it out in celebration of our reunion." Schuhart patted the old Mauser in its wooden case. "Besides, it seemed fitting given the circumstances." Turning a corner, the pair came to a parked motorcycle half-track. "Here we go," he sighed, easing himself into the wide seat at the rear.

Kang carefully sat beside him. "What is this thing?"

"Kettenkrad," the one-eyed man explained. "Airborne light tractor made in Germany back in the forties. The garage holding our primary trucks took a direct hit, so we rolled out this relic as a stopgap."

It was just the kind of thing Schuhart would do, the colonel thought. "Where did you get it?"

"Well, about fifteen years ago some people out in Estonia found a Soviet tank at the bottom of a peat lake, perfectly preserved and in working order. That got folks thinking about what else might be out there, and some divers started combing the swamps. Last year they found a whole pile of stuff, probably dumped by a retreating Wehrmacht company late in the war. The team hauled everything up, started restoration and ran out of money... Some asshole seized the lot when they went bankrupt, wanted to scrap it all. I got wind of this, made an offer and won everything. I thought we could loan the collection to a museum or rent it to film crews or something, but now there's a new war on – so much for Plan A." The man shook his head. "But you didn't come out here just to hear me yammer about my antiquarian kleptomania... So, how'd you end up working with the sky eyes?"

"I'm not entirely sure," Kang admitted. "When did _you_ join Novaya Tula?"

"I didn't. Woodpecker and the others work for me now." Schuhart laid the Thompson across his lap. "Novaya Tula was a good outfit, but it didn't survive Third Impact and our brave new world order. All I could do was buy up the fragments... It's been a worthwhile investment, I think."

"I see..." That accounted for the submarine and all the Russians. "Then you, too, are trading in arms."

The reply was as soft as it was brief. "Yeah."

"Why?" Kang frowned. "You used to be so..."

"Idealistic?" There was a wry laugh. "Look what it did for me."

Sensing that he didn't want to talk about that, the colonel adjusted her line of inquiry. "What are you doing here?"

"It was a convenient place to do business until a few days ago," Schuhart answered matter-of-factly. "We were lucky enough to be outside the center of the bombing, but who knows where things will go from here?" He glanced at his companion. "You know you're the first official of any kind to visit since then? Where's the army? The PAP? Why is your government letting the sky eyes run the relief effort?"

"The situation in the mainland is... very bad right now."

"You mean China's turning back into a basket case." Kang flinched at the other's bluntness, even as she agreed with the sentiment. "Seele was covering up more corruption and incompetence than anyone thought possible." Schuhart brought the submachine gun to his shoulder, sighting in on a hypothetical enemy. "Next thing we know, it'll be the warlord years all over again. Guess I really _did_ dress for the occasion."

"That isn't funny."

"It wasn't supposed to be." There was a long sigh. "What exactly _has_ been going on at your end of this mess?" When Kang looked like she wanted to protest, he wagged a finger. "Now, now, Colonel. You're going to go back and tell them all about me, so it's only fair. You share your story and I'll share mine."

If it had been anyone else sitting in his place, Kang would have refused. "My superiors put me on the welcoming committee as the token military figure," she recounted grudgingly. "I must have made a good impression on Group Commander Renaril, because she asked me to stay on as her adviser."

"I hear a little feminine charm goes a long way with our new overlords," Schuhart remarked.

"I didn't bother with flattery," Kang corrected. "I gave her an honest evaluation."

"Uh-huh," said Schuhart. "And this was the day before yesterday? Around the time of that RPG attack in Shenzhen, right?"

"We were in the building when it hit," the soldier confirmed. "Somehow nobody was actually injured."

"That's what the BBC said. What about yesterday, why didn't Beijing do anything?"

"A gross failure to communicate, or so I've been told. I didn't get the full story until I flew up to the Arume command ship and cornered Renaril... Together we managed to get a rescue operation going, but it was probably too little and too late." Kang bowed her head. "I've been working nearly nonstop since then. I only wish I had known sooner."

"Hm..." Schuhart mused. "What kind of person is this Renaril?"

"She's a complete novice," the woman opined. "Timid, indecisive and fresh out of training with no prior experience."

"So the sky eyes put this rookie in charge of overseeing the most populous nation on the planet and on her second day in office she's already blowing up one of its greatest cities... Nice work, I must say."

"Perhaps not. She told me the bombing was carried out by the Arume office for Japanese affairs, in her name but without her knowledge. Either way, she's issued an order prohibiting further use of special weapons."

"Doesn't do us much good now," said Schuhart philosophically. "And you're still helping her?"

Kang nodded reluctantly. "For all her faults, Renaril at least cares about the people. She's someone I can work with."

"Ah... Well, go on."

"The other branch justified the attack by claiming that the Japanese gave them intelligence pointing to Uighur insurgents here in Hong Kong, though they haven't shared any of their sources. Available data in orbit wasn't enough to keep working from, so today I came down to Yuen Long to inspect conditions on the ground. I didn't realize you were here until Metford Lee gave me your number... That's all I know."

"It's enough." Schuhart pushed himself to his feet and faced her. "The plot thickens."

"What do you mean?"

"I'll start from the beginning." The cyclops rested the Thompson on his shoulder. "The botched attack in Shenzhen was the first whiff of trouble – it didn't take a PhD to know someone wanted to spoil the party. We figured letting it go on would only bring us trouble, so I had some of the crew make a sweep of likely hideouts in the coastal ruins... They found a cache, sure enough: Egyptian guns and a bunch of papers in Japanese."

"Japanese?"

The man nodded. "Hold on to that... We were planning to make another sweep the next day, but the bombing prevented us. The sky eyes managed to take out all the civic support centers and sent the majority of the survivors stampeding north: obviously trying to deal with the trapped and wounded took priority... The thing is, _somebody_ fired another RPG at one of those gosta carriers during the opening dispersal."

Kang had omitted mention of that event from her account in hopes of gauging Schuhart's veracity. "Someone other than your... employees," she prompted.

"Bingo. At the time we were too busy to do more than send out a few patrols... I'm not much of an acrobat in this condition, of course, so I pulled Kettenkrad duty: once we'd gotten a bunch of survivors together, I used a trailer to evacuate them upland in stages. During one of those runs, I came across some renegade gosta... They wanted a home and I needed all the extra hands I could get, so taking them along seemed like a good idea."

"You picked them up just like that?"

Schuhart cocked his head. "Haven't you read _Who are the Arume?_ It was right on the money about their kind."

_Of course,_ Kang thought. _He **would** know about it._ "What happened after that?"

"Things got hairy, to tell the truth. I was driving back with the girls in the trailer when an Arume flier strafed their sisters in the hills and came after us... I didn't actually see any sky eyes, but the ship unloaded a squad of collaborator troops." He put a hand on his hip, his voice turning indignant. "After beating me up, they decided to shoot the kids and I right there and torch the Kettenkrad in the bargain. We'd have been toast if one of my teams hadn't sniped the bastards."

"What about the landing craft?"

"It tried to take off, so we hit it with an eighty-four millimeter. Damned flimsy thing practically turned to confetti." Schuhart raised an eyebrow. "Surely you've heard all this from the aliens?"

"A little," Kang hedged. "As I said, intelligence up there wasn't sufficient."

"In more ways that one," Schuhart quipped darkly. "I thought maybe we'd finally get some peace, but no – I took the girls indoors and rustled up some food for them, and then _pow!_ A rocket hit the building and the next thing I knew, I was going CQB against a three-man suicide strike... Anyhow, we settled their hash pretty fast and went after the other six. None of 'em could fight worth shit, but we didn't get any alive." He didn't sound as though he much regretted the fact. "Since then we've been following our routine: restoring basic power and water supplies, looking for survivors, patrolling for looters and generally trying to maintain stability." The man held up his weapon and ran a finger down the barrel's cooling fins. "The attackers were Japanese nationals with more Egyptian hardware plus one Chinese RPG."

"Japanese," Kang repeated. "You're sure?"

"We have positive ID on two – leg-breakers for the Great Sun Society. Still working on the rest, but they sure as hell ain't Uighur... So you can see why I find your revelation about the instigators of the bombing to be of great interest."

Kang didn't beat around the bush. "I'm too tired to play the intrigue game," she said flatly. "You think there's a connection."

"Well... This is strictly conjecture, mind you, but it seems to me that we might be looking at a failed false-flag operation." Schuhart sat down again. "The Arume showed up looking all friendly and helpful, but reading even two pages of that little expose shows what bullshit _that_ act was. Now China's in a bad way and that makes it an inviting target, but the sky eyes appointed someone green as a lime to oversee affairs here – why?"

"Because her superiors never intended for her to remain in that position..?"

"Exactly. My guess is that Renaril was supposed to die in that first RPG attack, or at least be too wounded to continue her duties. The powers on high would be free to replace her, blame it on the fictional insurgents and roll right in, wouldn't they? It'd be Mukden two-point-oh!"

A mass of dread was steadily growing in Kang's belly. "It would."

"But that didn't work and Renaril came out unscathed – time to ramp up the menace of the 'enemy' and hit them decisively."

"But... why bomb the whole city? Even the other Arume I've spoken to thought it was too much for the supposed threat level."

"That's true," Schuhart admitted. "I suppose it might be that the conspirators wanted to make sure there wasn't enough left for anyone to prove that the insurgents never existed, but I think it's more likely that there was a miscommunication or that somebody simply got carried away. The rocket attack against the gosta carrier would have been prearranged to justify the bombardment."

It still wasn't making perfect sense to Kang. "Then why would the fake insurgents attack you as well?"

"Because we got in the way," said Schuhart simply. "We were on the tail of the hit team – if we'd uncovered something conclusive and spread it around, that'd have been the end of their scam... And then we shot down an Arume craft: they wouldn't want any organized resistance at ground zero, so we had to go. At the very least, an attack could have slowed us down long enough for the plotters to come up with a better plan... Since the Society is involved, however, it's also possible that their thugs went rogue and were merely trying to retaliate for the whipping we gave them back in the Tokyo Limited-Intervention Zone. Those psychos know how to carry a grudge."

The colonel took a deep breath. "If this is true, who is responsible?"

"The Society, obviously, and the Arumic Japan branch. I don't know how far up the chain of command it might extend. I suspect the Ibuki zaibatsu is also involved, since they control the money and connections which the Society depends on. They have the requisite ambition, too, and word from my Nihon contacts is that they're snuggling right up to the sky eyes."

"Ibuki... As in Maya and Takao?"

"Yeah," said Schuhart sadly. "The only good apples in a rotten barrel. You know one of their cousins is a real latter-day National Socialist?"

"I vaguely remember hearing about it."

"That's Chokai," Schuhart went on, "and his brother Atago is a bloodthirsty pervert. What's worse is that the family is still grooming them to be the next leaders." A look of disgust came over his face. "I should have killed those little freaks when I had the chance."

"Those two as the next leaders of the family conglomerate?" The Chinese woman winced. "Seriously?"

"Let's hope that's as far as their elders' desires extend. The current prime minister is an old friend of the family, and some of the rumors I've heard... Nah, we've got more important problems. How are things between you and Renaril now? Does she trust you?"

"Maybe too much," Kang conceded. "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking that keeping her alive and in her place is probably better than whatever the other side had planned. Can you cover her back?"

"I can try, but what about you? What do you intend?"

"I'm out of the world-saving business," Schuhart grunted, "and I'm busy enough just holding things together here. Don't expect me to be able to come flying to your rescue this time, however much I might want to... Right now it looks pretty clear to me that the Arume are going to come after us again – unless you can work some miracles with Renaril, nobody will be playing by Hague rules."

The inference made Kang nauseous. "I'll do what I can," she replied warily.

"Only bite off what you can chew," the man admonished. "Don't go out of your way for me, especially if it threatens your other duties. Your first loyalty should lie with the people, _not_ me. Didn't you always tell me that was the ultimate responsibility of a true communist?"

"How can you say that!?" Kang bolted to her feet, the mounting frustration and resentment boiling over. "How can you sit there and tell me to abandon you after you saved my career, saved my _life,_ tried to help me win the woman I loved – "

"And failed," Schuhart interjected flatly.

"That isn't the _point!"_ the colonel cried. "Do you realize that you might be asking me to stand by and watch you die? That I might even have to lead troops against you?"

Schuhart shrugged. "Well, at least I'd be up against someone competent and honorable. Nice change from the usual suspects."

Kang's head bowed in acquiescence of her second defeat. "I thought we were friends..."

"We are." Suddenly Schuhart was on his feet, his arms around her. "You don't owe me anything, Colonel, so don't throw your own future away for a nobody."

Kang had to crane her neck to meet his one eye, her nose full of the scents of sweat and gunpowder. "What are you talking about?"

"You can see I'm a wreck." The man released her and stepped back. "And arms dealers have never ranked high on any moral score. My days as a pretty cool guy are over, not that I ever qualified."

"But – "

"You ever seen one of those roleplaying games where there's a merchant character who can always be found somewhere on the current map square? That's the new me." Schuhart nodded towards the dock. "Sorry, but I've got to get back to work now if there's nothing else you urgently need. You know what you have to do, yeah?"

So that was it. The interview was over. "I understand," Kang answered quietly, turning away. "I'll go."

As she began to walk, Schuhart's voice came after her. "Hey... For what it's worth, I'm really sorry I couldn't do more about Miss Zheng."

"It's all right," the colonel replied. "If she's happy with that man, it's all right." Realizing this might be her last chance, she took another deep breath. "S-Schuhart..."

"Hm?"

"What makes you think you can fight the Arume?"

When she looked back, Schuhart was grinning. She'd only ever seen that expression twice before, and it had immediately preceded massive bloodshed on both occasions.

"What makes you think we _can't?"_

* * *

"Okay," Nereus bellowed, "give it a little more!"

Richardson had been able to hear the engine revving from a warehouse away, and up close it sounded loud even with her fingers jammed into her ears. Nereus was crouched over the long, angular snout of the vehicle which housed the engine, barking instructions to a man named Vyacheslav who sat at the controls and adjusted the noise level. A sideways look informed the gosta that none of the other girls present appreciated the racket any more than she.

"Hold it steady!" The silver-haired man jumped down from his perch. "Low gear forwards!"

There was a metallic grinding as the machine emerged from the hangar and came out under the cloudy sky. It was a boxy contraption with wheels at the front and tracks behind like the offspring of a tank and a truck – a bigger, badder Kettenkrad. There were numbers stenciled on its mottled side, along with a white-outlined black cross identical to those on painted on the diminutive tractor. Richardson didn't understand why, but the presence of that symbol seemed to bother the men around her: Nereus in particular kept shooting ugly looks at it.

The half-track made a wide turn until it was parallel to the front of the warehouse, then went quiet. "All done," Vyacheslav called as he climbed out. "I do clearance check with granatomyot, yes?"

"Go ahead," Nereus answered shortly, resuming his tinkering. "Where's that goddamn hose clamp..?"

Richardson gingerly uncovered her ears as the buzz of a second engine resolved into the familiar clatter of the Kettenkrad. She felt strangely gladdened by the sight of Schuhart riding up the street, openly smiling by the time he came to a stop. "Uncle Roland!"

"Nuts," the man chuckled, raising his goggles. "I thought I could slip right past you." He turned his attention to Nereus. "How's it going?"

"I'd rather replace the carburetor outright, but it should hold together as-is if we don't push it too hard." The older man paused to wipe the sweat from his brow. "Even the Czechs' diesel knockoff would be better than this gas-guzzling scow... For the record, your plan's insane."

"Sure it is," said the cyclops affably. "But we pulled it off before, didn't we? If you know where we can find something else that can tow artillery and carry troops offroad, don't keep it a secret."

"I know, I know," Nereus grumbled. "Anyway, what did you get from Kang?"

"A spade."

"A _spade?"_

Schuhart began to sing as he swung his legs over the Kettenkrad's side. "Ev'ry-body ought to have a spade... Ev'ry-body ought to have a digging tool... Ev'ry-body ought to have an entrenching tool... To fend off all the Krauts!"

"You're awful," Nereus snorted. "Was it worth the time or wasn't it?"

Schuhart didn't answer until he'd finished fitting his leg brace. "I learned some interesting things, if she was telling me the truth... We'll have to convene a staff meeting."

* * *

"Coffee break?"

"Er..." Azanael wasn't actually drinking coffee, but the concept described her current activity well enough. "I suppose."

"Great," said Elaqebil cheerfully. "Mind if I join you?"

"If you want to."

"So..." The other Arume settled against the bulkhead beside the drink dispenser. "How's work?"

"Mundane," Azanael said curtly. "At least the hours are regular." She threw a look at Elaqebil. "Is that Coca-Cola?"

"Mm-hm."

"How do you stand it?"

"Acquired taste, I guess." Elaqebil took a sip. "You look tense. Somebody barrel roll you?"

Azanael rolled her eyes at the mention of the old training embarrassment. "You'll never forget that, will you?"

"Not so long as I live," the other cackled. "But seriously, I can see something's bothering you."

"I ran into one of my cousins," the pilot confessed. "I hadn't seen her since before... Before things went bad. She's in a ground control squad now."

"Is she big and sexy like you?"

"..."

"That's too bad... How was she?"

"She pretended not to know me. I didn't ask."

"Tch." Elaqebil's lip curled. "Some manners she's got."

"I know."

"Don't let it get to you." Elaqebil suddenly perked up. "Hey, doesn't your shift end soon?"

"Not for a while," Azanael corrected. "Why?"

"It's movie night in my section. We're screening _Casablanca_, if that interests you at all."

"I'll think about – gaaah!"

The tall Arume's drink went flying as Renaril whipped past her and latched onto her friend. "Elaqebil," the group commander cried, "help!"

"Uh... Wuh..."

"It's Kang!" The smallest of the three Arume was plainly on the verge of hysterics. "They're torturing her!"


	12. Call of Booty

_Part 11: Call of Booty_

"All right." Schuhart rested against the big half-track's side as he inspected the freshly reassembled rifle. "Since you've handled it and learned to take it apart, I suppose you want to fire it now."

Richardson wondered if this was some kind of trick question. "Um... yes?"

"I have to be up front about this," the man explained. "A lot of the others think I should refuse your request."

"Why?"

"They fear you'd become little better than child soldiers." When the pair of gosta gave him blank looks, Schuhart released a resigned sigh. "Okay... Picture a bunch of half-starved twelve year old Africans – kidnapped, brainwashed and amped up on narcotics – going at each other with rusty Chinese AKs on the bidding of ten-a-penny warlords who think 'child welfare' means giving three kicks to the head instead of five. The continent's swarming with 'em, Angola through Zimbabwe... Southeast Asia's got a lot, too."

Harrington looked offended. "But we are not abducted," she asserted. "We are volunteers."

"Not that the yuppies would believe it... Anyway, what do you expect to get out of this? What do you really want?"

"We want to protect ourselves," the girl answered proudly, Richardson nodding in agreement, "and those around us."

"Uh-huh." Schuhart scratched his jaw. "That's your excuse?"

"It is."

"Good enough for me... Next question is, what job do you train for? I assume you two would prefer to stick together?"

Richardson nodded again. "Yes, please."

"You're kind of lightweight for anti-tank or machine gunner duty," the man pointed out. "The most viable option is training as a sniper-spotter pair, but I can only give you the basics on that and I must warn you – it's not an easy career. It takes patience, discipline. You may have to spend hours, even days, waiting to make just one shot. That one shot may be all you can take during an entire mission." Schuhart cocked his head. "But it'd take a while for you to build the requisite skills even if you turn out to be stellar prodigies, so you'll have to settle for squad sharpshooter in the short term. Less sneaking and more action, working as part of a bigger unit. Think you can hack it?"

"It's enough," Richardson interjected. "When can we start?"

"I've got a friend coming in who can teach you the finer points, but I'm sure he'll be happier if you already have the basics down when he arrives." The cyclops nodded towards the Kettenkrad. "C'mon."

* * *

Azanael wasn't sure why she'd tailed Renaril and Elaqebil, especially with the guarantee of imminent trouble looming over the pair, but it gave her a first-rate view of what followed. Elaqebil quickly took charge, leading the way into a restricted section. The few personnel who tried to stop her were universally driven back by a combination of her fierce looks, Renaril's unabated agitation and the tall pilot's own looming presence in the rearguard. Though she'd been too bitter to appreciate it at the time, that summer she'd spent in a cell aboard Ekaril's battlecruiser was nothing next to what the system could officially do to those who got out of line. She couldn't suppress a shiver at the frigid attitudes of those who worked in _Magnanimous Hyacinth_'s disciplinary affairs department. Even this part of the station's structure itself seemed to exude a foreboding atmosphere.

It only got worse when Elaqebil bulldozed into the interrogation anteroom. It was soundproofed, of course, and the entire far wall was a one-way mirror. "You see?" Renaril frantically hissed. "You see what they're doing to her!?"

On the other side, a cluster of individuals were standing around a chair with heavy restraints on the arms and legs. Kang was strapped into it, a plethora of fine tubes attached to the needles embedded in her arms. She stared straight ahead as if in a trance: only the beads of sweat on her forehead and a tremor of her fingertips betrayed that she was fighting every moment of the procedure. In addition to the expressionless technicians, the onlookers included an Arume with the same black and gold rank stripes as Renaril's own plus an aging man in forime military-style clothing. The chamber's microphone was disabled, leaving those outside it unable to follow the terse questions and answers passing back and forth within.

"I don't think they're _torturing_ her," Elaqebil observed gingerly, "but an expedient interrogation shouldn't be conducted without your approval." She went over to the inner door and thumped it.

The other group commander soon joined them with a scowl. "What do you want?"

"A-_hem."_ Elaqebil puffed out her ample chest a little, emphasizing her own rank stripes. Though her position as a superintendent of forime affairs put her in a different chain of command than the navy's, she technically outranked both the present commanders. "Group Commander... Benacirael, isn't it? You appear to be intruding on Renaril's jurisdiction."

"It's not hers any more," Benacirael snorted. "The Hong Kong crisis zone has been transferred to my authority, per fleet command's orders." She snapped her fingers at the door guards before turning her back on the intruders. "This isn't any concern of hers."

"Azanael," Elaqebil intoned in her sweetest dare-I-trouble-you voice before the guards could drag her protege from the premises, "would you please take Renaril to the mess and wait for me there? If anyone asks, say I cleared it."

* * *

"By the way, Uncle Roland," Harrington asked as she climbed out of his vehicle, "why were you meeting with the enemy?"

"Hm?"

"That person who visited," Richardson clarified. "Uncle Nereus said she was from the Arume."

"Only in a very loose sense." Schuhart commented, bending to fit his brace. "She's definitely not in their pocket, so there's hope yet."

"She is... your friend?" Harrington didn't seem to think such was possible.

"It's a bit of a stretch to say we're old war buddies," the man mused as he picked up his rifle and the two extras he'd retrieved from his field office, "but Colonel Kang and I go back a ways."

"Is she a good person?"

"Hm..." Schuhart considered the question for a few moments. "She lives on a hair trigger, doesn't care about her own safety, thinks democracy is for the bovine and holds that China has been going downhill ever since Zhou Enlai died... But yeah, apart from all that I'd say she's a good person." He peered briefly at the row of wooden posts at which he had earlier been shooting, then started towards them.

The gosta trailed him, Harrington looking unconvinced. "In what way is she a good person?"

"Let's see..." Schuhart picked up one of the posts, inverted it and placed it against the wall, leaving the unblemished end uppermost. "I don't think there's anything she wouldn't do for you if you were in her unit," he suggested, stepping to the next post. "She's strong, fast and fiercely loyal to those she cares about... Could definitely beat me in a fight any day, and she'll never take a bribe."

Richardson spoke up before her companion could voice further skepticism. "It sounds as if you admire her very much."

"I should." The man turned over the final post and abruptly walked back to the Kettenkrad. "She still has something to believe in."

"Uh oh," Harrington whispered in Arumic. "Is this what they call 'touching a nerve'?"

"I think so..."

"Let's get started," Schuhart called, bringing the pair scampering towards the small half-track. "We'll do this over three stages, practicing in turns... Stage three is the M-Fourteen, which you've already been introduced to." He set his customary weapon aside and picked up a longer rifle with wood encasing the barrel all the way to the muzzle's snub cap. "This is a Lee-Enfield Mark Three service rifle: when my esteemed great-grandfather went to the trenches a hundred years ago, this is what he carried. It'll be stage two in your training."

"It's like Uncle Daemon's." Richardson's brow furrowed as she recalled the subtle differences in detail. "Almost like it, I mean."

"Well spotted. That's an Indian variant, an RFI Two-A-One... Now the first stage, for reasons which will quickly become apparent, is this Mark Four trainer. Put these in your ears and watch carefully."

The purpose of the pairs of yellow foam plugs which he passed to each gosta was clear enough, but Richardson found herself stumped by Schuhart's purpose. She couldn't see any significant difference between the latter two rifles, so why train with one specifically before the other? She wouldn't even know which one he put down and which he picked up if she weren't keeping her eyes on him. Switching back to the first Lee-Enfield, the one-eyed man set a cardboard box on the Kettenkrad's left fuel tank. From it he took five grungy cartridges, neatly clipped together with a thin piece of metal, and loaded them with a stiff push of his thumb. "Okay," he yelled at last, ramming the mechanism closed and stepping away, "here we go!"

The long weapon jolted in his hands: Richardson heard the noise of its discharge less than she felt the shockwave from the bullet's passage. While Schuhart, fumbling with a system obviously not meant for lefties, ejected the sulfur-scented casing and chambered his second round, she turned her eyes to the targeted post. The next shot was equally awing, jolting the standing timber which it struck: a display far more impressive than the earlier session with the much-disdained captured rifle. After the fifth round, Schuhart changed over to the trainer and loaded it with a single, smaller cartridge: when he pulled the trigger, nothing seemed to happen.

Whipping the bolt back, the instructor reloaded and indicated that the gosta should watch the muzzle rather than the butt. This time Richardson caught the anemic puff of smoke, almost nothing compared to what she'd witnessed a minute ago. Now that she saw it in action, the trainer's purpose was straightforward. "Uncle Roland," the girl asked, following the shooter's lead in removing the plugs from her ears, "why couldn't you just explain that at the beginning?"

"I could have," Schuhart remarked mildly, "but when I was taking composition classes in school, 'show, don't tell' was the mantra they always hammered into us... Now, who wants to go first?"

* * *

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

"I don't think so." Renaril slouched in her seat, elbows on the table. "I don't understand," she mumbled. "I though things were finally getting better, but now..."

"Better?" Azanael frowned. "Forgive me if I seem unimpressed, Group Commander, but I can't see how starting wars with Argentina, Afghanistan, Saudi Arabia and Korea could make things better."

"I know." The officer sank even lower, ignoring the pilot's lack of etiquette. "It wasn't supposed to happen like this."

"..."

Azanael's difficulty in thinking of a suitable reply was rendered moot by the entrance of four other Arume. The one in front wore a commander's cape and carried the matching cap in her hand. Her snowy hair was raked back as if she'd walked straight into a gale somewhere down the corridor. Immediately behind her were a pair of petty officers: one with a slightly reddish mane and a timid demeanor, the other hard-faced and aggressively postured. Following these three came a woman as tall as Azanael herself, a chief engineer with a little braid beside her left temple.

"...Believe they called us all the way out here," the angry one was saying. "What do they want to know that we haven't told them already?"

"It could be worse," the engineer replied wearily. "At least we left the grab-ass behind."

"Poor Edamamel," the angry Arume snorted. "How many reprimands has she scored now? Six? Seven? Is anyone keeping count?"

"Don't remind me," the engineer sighed. "Anyway, what are we supposed to tell the spooks?"

"Let me worry about that," the commander cut in, prompting nods of compliance from the others.

"I feel sorry for Schuhart," the quiet one opined. "I mean, it definitely wasn't his fault that..."

Her voice faded as she and the others passed out of the room, leaving Azanael and Renaril alone with their unhappy thoughts.

* * *

Richardson was a mass of pain. Her unprepared shoulder throbbed where the .303's stout buttplate had slammed against it again and again, her thumb stung from reaching too quickly for a hot casing which hadn't correctly ejected and her legs and back ached with the strain of holding a half-squatting position at the rear of the Kettenkrad, the venerable machine's aft handrail serving as a rest for the heavy rifle. She wasn't about to quit, though: the other gosta had already moved up to stage three and was contentedly blasting away with the M14 under Schuhart's tutelage. Time to strengthen her own focus: line up the little post and the little notch, take a deep breath and hold it...

_Boomph!_

* * *

Renaril snapped out of her depressed daze only when Elaqebil entered. "Well?" the former demanded.

"It's not good," Elaqebil reported, sitting across from her on the bench beside Azanael. "Apparently Kang was involved in a plot to disrupt your treaty with the Chinese government."

"But... The insurgents?"

"They're actually Russians working for an American arms dealer named Roland Schuhart. It seems they and he were just hired to handle the ground work."

"No..." Renaril shook her head frantically. "No-no-no, that's impossible!"

Elaqebil appeared sympathetic but firm. "The phys-techs put Kang on heavy compliance mix. She told them everything."

Azanael shuddered, the innocuousness of her friend's words only making the feeling of dread worse. 'Compliance mix' meant a powerful cocktail of emotional suppressants and other psychological effectors. Subjected to a steady dosage, the victim would be helpless against even a simple questioning. Use of the drugs was ostensibly restricted to emergencies and its abuse mandated severe penalties. "Elaqebil," she hissed, "by forime law that _is_ torture."

"Law we aren't subject to," the other pointed out. "Anyway, it's over – they wouldn't talk to me until after the session was done."

A glimmer of hope came over Renaril. "Can I see her now?"

"Afraid not. She's been put into an induced coma for her own safety, and Benacirael made it clear that she doesn't want anything to do with you." Elaqebil held up her hands. "I'm sorry, but she wouldn't budge on that. Until further notice, you're off the Hong Kong operation."

"But why is this happening? _Why?"_

Both the other women flinched at the anguished cry. "Renaril, please," Elaqebil admonished. "I know you like tomboys, but getting so upset over someone you've only known a few days – "

"It's not like that! It's just..." The group commander sagged again. "It just isn't fair..."

"Elaqebil," Azanael said slowly, giving voice to a lurking suspicion, "how much of this information did you hear from the suspect herself?"

"None of it directly. Like I said, they made me wait outside until they'd finished."

"Did they give you a transcript?"

"Said it needed cleaning up." Elaqebil squinted. "Where are you going with this?"

"It's nothing," the pilot answered curtly. She failed to sound sincere and all three of them knew it. "You said the arms dealer was named Schuhart?"

"That's right."

Azanael turned to Renaril. "Group Commander, didn't one of the women who passed by us mention that name?"

"I wasn't paying attention," the younger Arume mumbled, not sounding very attentive now either.

Elaqebil, however, looked interested. "Someone else knew about Schuhart? Who was that?"

"There were four of them," the tallest of the trio recalled. "A commander, an engineer and a couple of junior officers. They were complaining about being summoned to give a report, and then one started to say that something wasn't Schuhart's fault. That's all I picked up."

"Huh." The highest-ranked of the Arume scratched her head. "No names on any of the four?"

"None," Azanael confirmed, "and now that I think about it, I couldn't even place the accent they spoke with... One did mention an acquaintance, however – someone named Edamamel." She looked to Renaril. "If Benacirael won't help you, this Edamamel might."

Elaqebil raised an eyebrow. "It's not like you to get so fired up, Azanael."

"This is all suspicious." The pilot folded her arms. "Admit it – you think so too."

"Irregular, perhaps." The superintendent stood up. "Be that as it may, we all have our posts to attend to. If you come to the movie screening, maybe we can talk after."

"One more thing before you go," said Azanael quickly. "Who was the man with Benacirael?"

"A third-layer security consultant named Hyman. He's American, but I understand the Japan branch picked him up. What about him?"

"Just curious." Azanael also rose. "See you later."

* * *

"...Tokarev, Makarov, Interarms and Zaharoff, Heckler-Koch, Spitzgeschoss, _tap it, rack and fiiire!"_ Schuhart began waving his arm as if directing a band only he could see. "Weee didn't start the fighting... It was you who came here, and now you're to blame dears... Weee didn't start the fighting..." He broke off with a disappointed expression. "Eh, that chorus needs work."

"Speaking of work," Nereus called, appearing from inside the warehouse behind the large half-track, "has Hakim called you back?"

"No sign of him. Any progress with the Sherman?"

The older man shrugged. "The engine's fine, still working on the 'dozer blade. The main pipe is a no-go."

"No thanks to the museum staff for that," Schuhart muttered. "Secondaries?"

"Our spares will fit."

"Praise be. I'm taking these two over to KK for consultation, unless you need me."

"Did they turn out okay?"

The monocular man grinned. "It was _awesome."_

"I'll take your word for it." Nereus went inside. "Don't enjoy yourself too much."

* * *

Richardson had to admit, as she lifted out the operating rod for the fifth time, that she was getting bored with field stripping. She and Harrington by now well knew how to break down the rifle and the gosta had discovered that shooting was far more rewarding than reassembling, despite the aches and pains. With Keiko making regular inspections as she orbited the room to check on all the girls, the rest either reading books or sleeping, there was nothing to do but press on with the given task until Uncle Roland came to the rescue.

Harrington had just removed the M14's upper handguard when the door clicked open. "Keiko," Schuhart called softly, "Karan's here."

"Really?" The giant of a woman went to the door. "Hey, long time no see... Better keep it down, some of the kids are sleeping."

"Kids?" That voice was a new one, with an accent Richardson hadn't heard before.

"Our orphan innocents." Schuhart entered with a chuckle, followed by a young man of south Asian appearance with yet another long rifle on his person. "Tread lightly now."

The newcomer looked taken aback. "Roland, these... These are..!"

"Gosta – the few who, out of fear, defiance, empathy or whatever reason, abandoned their makers' intended purpose." The man's tone was entirely matter-of-fact. "They had nowhere else to go and nobody else who would help them, so..."

"But aren't they, you know, _dangerous?"_

"Haven't had any trouble yet... Some of 'em are still a bit skittish, but they assimilate information like you wouldn't believe." Catching a questioning look from Sauer over the top of _A Brief History of Time_, he gave her a thumbs-up.

"And... What are you going to do with them?"

"Give them a chance at having lives of their own, obviously. They ought to be fine as long as the sky eyes don't catch them."

The stranger looked down at Richardson and her companion. "Why are these two..?"

"They volunteered."

"Volunteered... Volunteered to _fight?"_

"Yup. First of a new breed of Janissary... On top of that, they seem to be telepathically bonded."

"...Huh?"

"You should have seen them earlier. It was amazing."

The visitor frowned. "I'll take your word for it. What about the rest, are you going to teach them fighting as well?"

"To improve their odds of survival, if nothing else." Schuhart motioned to the rifles captured from the soldiers, stacked along one wall. "Give 'em those if they show decent aptitude."

"M-Fours?"

"XM-Eighteens. They're made in the second layer – the Arume brought them over to give to local collaborators."

"The Arume brought these?"

"Yeah, but they don't use 'em themselves – they're too fastidious." There was a sardonic laugh. "If there's one thing I'll never see so long as I live, it's a sky eyes crawling through the mud with a rifle."

"I can imagine."

"So?" Keiko came over, cradling what she called her 'big ArmaLite' with affection. "You looking to join us or not?"

"Well... Nereus' message made it sound like you had a pretty serious outfit coming together."

"We do," Schuhart replied. "And while we may _look_ like a bunch of stalkers loosely operating under the methods of Novaya Tula, greater things are in the works. We've got some awesome people aboard already."

"Like who?"

"Arbuthnot Ponsonby, for a start."

Karan's eyebrows arched. "Ponsonby? The genius of applied chemistry?"

"And sometime social commentator, yes."

"I thought he was working for Seele."

Schuhart chuckled again. "Emphasis on the past tense there..." Richardson briefly tuned out the conversation to help Harrington inspect the M14's parts for fouling. She looked up again when the arms dealer went over to one of several boxes stacked in the room's corners and took out a huge four-barreled device with the words _KAIJIN CONTROL ONLY_ stencil-painted on it. "This serious enough for you?"

"Uh... _Yes."_

"Okay, then." Schuhart put the launcher down. "Welcome to Eto Delo. You already know Keiko and most of the other ops staff. The girls are Richardson, Harrington, Sauer, Benelli, Rubin, Astra, Korth, Mannlicher, Webley, Carcano, Johnson, Lebel, Krieghoff, Vickers, Borchardt and Krag."

"That's a lot of names," Karan remarked. "Why are they all..?"

"Seemed like a good idea at the time," the man with the braced leg confessed.

"I should have known." The newest member looked around. "When do I start?"

"Right now, if you're up for it." Schuhart motioned to Harrington and Richardson. "These two are aiming to follow in your footsteps. I've shown them the basics, but you know I'm no medalist."

"I get it," the other man said. "Lead on."

On Schuhart's cue, the gosta trainees began to reassemble their weapon. "Anyway," he said as they worked, "how was Bangalore?"

"Terrible," Karan replied glumly. "Our government is run by thieves and idiots and the streets are clogged with extremists... Muslim, Hindu, nationalist, traditionalist, they're all the same. I couldn't stay there."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"It's worse over the border... What about yourself? Have you been back to the States?"

"Not once," Schuhart grunted. "I'm a stateless person now, even."

"Congratulations."

"Thanks... All set?"

Harrington nodded, resting the M14 on her shoulder. "We are ready."

"Off we go, then – hup-two, everybody!" Schuhart opened the door and was halfway through it when he froze. "What the hell are _you_ doing here!?"

* * *

"I love that movie," said Elaqebil as the evening's audience dispersed. "So quotable... 'Here's looking at you, kid,' and 'Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.'"

Azanael – never a great fan of heterosexual romance – rolled her eyes when her friend's back was turned, but annoyance gave way to worry as Renaril pushed towards the duo. "Group Commander, are you all right?"

"I've got a new problem," the youngest of the three answered. "According to the database, Edamamel doesn't exist."


	13. Revolyutsiy Nadeshda

_Part 12: Revolyutsiy Nadeshda_

_Shek Kip Mei Park, Hong Kong SAR_

_March 15th, 2016_

Richardson slept as well in the great outdoors – Schuhart's words – as she had in the urbs, if not better. It seemed customary for her and Harrington both to rise well before the other gosta, and so the pair of them crept out of the gaggle of tents while the clouds above reluctantly brightened with dawn's coming.

The park must have been a pleasant location once, before their fellow gosta turned it – Schuhart's words again – into 'Vimy Ridge without any ridge.' Richardson didn't know what Vimy was, but she had learned from Uncle Roland that this part of the city had been destroyed by a fire in the previous century and rebuilt into a public housing area. _"If the sky eyes want to make some friends here,"_ he'd remarked as the girls went off to bed, _"perhaps they should try to learn something from that."_

Uncle Roland, however, did not presently appear to be in the vicinity. Wandering in the direction of the park's shattered and thoroughly muddied pond, the pair instead encountered the second of yesterday's forime visitors. She was doing pushups in the grass, accompanied by a compact radio. _"...Spokesman for the British National Party refused to comment on the allegations,"_ a faraway newsreader was reciting. _"A representative for the alien side only stated that the Arume are not interested in a social hierarchy based on racial classification... The San Theodoran government-in-exile today released a broadside from president-in-exile Juan Maria Alcazar y Bazarov, denying that his late parents embezzled vast sums from the country's treasury between 1976 and – "_

The radio was abruptly switched off. "Today in the news: our innocent young virgins threatened by lascivious extraterrestrials." The exercising girl's accent was almost identical to the newsreader's. "World-plus-dog seethes with indignation, film at eleven." She straightened, brushing off her skirt and straightening a crimson tie. "Good morning, ladies."

"Good morning," Richardson replied politely. "Do you know where Uncle Roland is?"

"He's up at Sha Tin, checking over the treatment plant. Won't be back before lunch, I hear." The earlier bird stretched her brown arms and shook her head briskly, the short blond ponytail at the back whipping sideways. "So you two are his star proteges?"

Richardson wasn't immediately sure whether the question was a compliment or an insult. She cautiously opted for the former. "Yes."

"We weren't properly introduced yesterday." The forime girl curtsied. "My name's Laforey, Camilla Laforey."

"I am Harrington," the so-named gosta replied briskly, "and this is my partner, Richardson." As with the conversation regarding Colonel Kang, she looked to be taking what Nereus had called the 'bad-cop' stance. "You came with Uncle Karan... Are you also Indian?"

"English." Camilla gestured to her face. "Lived in Delhi for a couple of years, but I owe the complexion to a Berber grandmother."

"Why did Uncle Roland appear unhappy to see you?"

"I didn't tell him I was coming," Camilla explained. "I'm supposed to be behaving myself, staying out of trouble... Staying away from places like this."

"Trouble?" Richardson tensed. Had this person done something?

"You needn't look at me that way," the forime laughed. "My father is a man with a lot of enemies, you see. He used to be very powerful, but now he's in hiding... Me, I'm no criminal – just a girl who can't stand living in a cage."

"Why did you come here?"

"This city was a second home for me once." Camilla bent and picked up a leather holster from beside the radio, strapping it under her arm. "Seeing it reduced to rubble makes me angry."

"You're here to fight the Arume," Harrington expounded.

"Hm." The young woman drew a sleek pistol and held it at arm's length, hefting its weight. "I suppose I am."

"How do you know Uncle Roland?"

"I first met him last year, in a museum downtown." Camilla pointed to the southeast. "Some thugs employed by an enemy of my father tried to abduct our family there. Schuhart killed them as easily as other people swat flies." She shook her head. "Straight-up heroic bloodshed material – I have to admit I was enthralled... Then he went off to help some soldier, Guang or Kang or somebody like that, respond to a second kidnapping. I heard later that fifty-four bodies went to the morgue that night." The pistol was returned to its resting place. "Besides all that, we shared a hobby and he was stimulating in conversation." She broke off to grant a doubtful look at the pair's colorful windbreakers, shorts and sneakers, children's clothing issued to replace their old bodysuits. "Though I have doubts about his fashion sense... When I learned what he's up to now, how could I not come running?"

The gosta shared a look. "And... what is it that you do?" Richardson inquired.

"I'm not sure yet," Camilla admitted. "I brought my own Browning and I can shoot and march as well as any. Father and Schuhart would both say I'm too young, but plenty of fine Englishmen went off to war at my age before me... I suppose I'll simply have to find a niche and fill it." She looked at the gosta as if an idea were forming behind those emerald eyes. "What's our charming friend Roland taught you so far?"

"Battle rifle basics," Richardson answered, quoting Schuhart exactly. "Bolt-action and semiautomatic. Handling, stripping, cleaning, assembling, loading, aiming, firing."

"Just that?"

"...Yes. And Uncle Karan has begun teaching us marksman theory."

"Well, then!" Camilla clapped her hands. "Since Master Schuhart is out and Karan is getting some badly needed shuteye, what say you to spending the morning in my humble company?"

Richardson exchanged another look with Harrington. "Doing... what?" the latter queried.

"Let's see... Bayonet instruction is a good start, I should think – gives you strong arms and quick feet, and no ammunition wasted."

That didn't sound so bad. "All right," said Richardson. "If the pack leader gives approval."

"We'll soon have it." Camilla began briskly marching back towards the tent camp. "Single file," she barked. "Lively now! Left-right-left-right-left..!"

* * *

Azanael wasn't a morning person.

That was what she told herself, anyway. Certainly she didn't enjoy being rolled out of her bunk at an obscene hour only to be informed that she'd been transferred from flying cargo to flying reconnaissance. Under other conditions she might be grateful for the change in pace, but the timing of the move left her with a dread certainty that this was either punishment for something or an expedient method of getting rid of her. At least her new ship didn't steer like one of the worn-down, underpowered barges she'd seen during countless childhood trips to the mainland. As she zoomed over an endless expanse of gray ocean with no blips on the scanner and the controls on autopilot, the weary Arume let her mind wander a little.

Last night's hasty conference bothered her: however much Elaqebil chided her, the pilot couldn't help but think back to her own manipulation by Shivariel. It had been nearly sixteen years since then, true enough, but Azanael wasn't convinced that things had changed much. She smelled a conspiracy, but how to find evidence? The insistent beeping from the instrument panel told her she'd have to think about it later – her first mission objective was coming into range, which meant it was time to ease up on the throttle and resume manual control. Standing orders were simple: fly a couple of orbits and let the automated instruments get a good view of the target. The analysts aboard _Magnanimous Hyacinth_ would take care of the rest.

The target didn't look like much from a distance. It was a lone ship, a narrow gray vessel plowing steadily to the west. As she drew nearer, however, Azanael made out the shapes of masts bristling with radar arrays and boxy missile launchers placed at odd angles along the upper surfaces. The destroyer mounted a large gun in a forward turret and multiple torpedo launchers to boot. A dark green helicopter was lashed to the landing pad atop the aft superstructure, looking almost comically large on its undersized perch. The warship flew no flag and carried no name – the only mark was a white number painted on each face of the rust-streaked, wave-battered bow: _921_.

Azanael could see men moving about on deck, watching as she circled, but the ship sailed on indifferently. When the instruments signaled that her task was complete, she flew on. Four minutes bearing northeast brought the scout flier within view of the second objective: a destroyer identical to the first, down to the too-large helicopter it carried. Again the only mark was a number: _925_. The pilot flew her course, the cameras snapped their pictures and the ships pushed on, steaming ever closer to a ravaged city on the Chinese coast.

* * *

One minute beside an MG42 forever convinced Richardson that she never wanted to be either directly behind or directly before the infernal device so long as she lived: its ripping roar blotted out all other noise despite her earplugs and Sauer – who'd volunteered to operate the machine gun and was loving every moment of it – seemed to spend more time reloading and changing barrels than she did firing. She was just now engaged in the latter task yet again, opening a large latch with a white-gloved hand and casually dumping the hot barrel into a steel bucket of water. Catching Richardson's eye as she inserted its cool replacement, the tousle-haired gosta flashed a look of exhilaration.

Camilla's plan for morning bayonet aerobics had lasted about as long as it took for Keiko to get her boots on. By the time Karan came running, shoes in one hand and socks in the other, the dusky-skinned girl's scheme had expanded into a full live-fire exercise for all the gosta. The equipment lineup changed as well, substituting a pile of idle weapons from what Keiko called the 'swamp stock' in place of yesterday's hardware, dropping the luxury of small-caliber trainers and forcing Richardson and the rest to learn a whole new nomenclature, with strange terms like 'Gewehr' and 'Maschinenpistole'. The rigorous training stretched right past lunchtime and made one's head hurt as much as one's limbs.

Still, the girl reasoned as she pressed the butt of her rifle against her throbbing shoulder, it was better that being easy prey for the enemy. A few minutes more and she could swap places with one of Camilla's trainees, exchanging the Karabiner for a submachine gun and mock hand grenades.

_"If you think it's bad now,"_ Karan had warned her, _"just wait until you meet targets which shoot back."_

* * *

Renaril was rapidly sliding into utter apathy. The workload had diminished enough for her staff to handle incoming and outgoing traffic, but the group commander's misery dragged down everyone's spirits. The best she'd come up with for a distraction was a series of random selections dredged from the mainframe's meager listing of texts pertaining to her jurisdiction. She'd so far skimmed through Confucius – stale, sexist and obsessed with conformity, she thought – followed by Daoism, of which she could make little sense, and the larger sects of Chinese Buddhism, on which her evaluation was still pending. Now she was working through something more practical, though absorbing the details only sporadically.

The hiss of the command room door opening diverted the officer's attention: a spin of her chair brought her face to face with her ever-sour rival Benacirael. "Here," the latter grunted, tossing an electronic data card at Renaril. "Look at this, and hurry up."

Renaril did a quarter-turn to retrieve her PDA from the console dashboard, nudged it out of standby mode and inserted the card. "A ship..?" she asked, flipping through the photographs.

"Two." Benacirael placed her hands on her bare, pale hips. "The Taiwanese destroyers _Liao Yang_ and _Te Yang_, heading for Hong Kong. If nothing is done, they'll reach the city tomorrow."

Renaril sighed. "So now the Republic of China is intervening..?"

"Look again," Benacirael ordered. When the other's blank look didn't change, she shook her head. "They're carrying no flags, flying no colors. Those ships were decommissioned and sold off. Apparently the Cambodian government was going to buy them but backed out at the last minute. Since then they've officially been laid up pending disposal."

"Well... Who owns them now?"

"Who do you _think?"_ Benacirael tapped a finger against the side of her head. "Roland Schuhart does, dammit! He couldn't sell them to Cambodia, so now he's bringing them to Hong Kong."

"The Hong Kong crisis zone has been transferred to your authority, per fleet command's orders," Renaril parroted flippantly. "Why'd you even bother telling me about this?"

"One, your friend the chubby superintendent won't stop breathing down my neck. Two, my jurisdiction doesn't extend to Chinese territorial waters." She wrinkled her nose. "Three, you'd throw a fit if I did anything out there without you clearing it."

"How nice of you to wait for my approval," Renaril replied tartly. "I assume you want to just blow them up."

"I'd love to, were 'show restraint' not the watchword of the day." Benacirael cocked her head. "Just so you know, we're implementing a blockade of the operations area. While you were moping about and dragging your heels up here, the enemy was resupplying from Macau and Guangzhou. That ends tonight, get it? Schuhart can't hold out forever if we isolate him." The officer plainly enjoyed the idea. "Starve the scum for a bit, then clean them right out..."

"And what if they don't wait for you to come?"

"All the better." Benacirael turned away. "I've got work to do. You know where to find me, but _don't_ waste my time." Halfway out the door, she paused momentarily. "You look horrible, you know that? Get out of this stuffy _closet_ and take a walk or something, why don't you?"

She departed on that note, leaving Renaril ever more depressed. "This is it," she mumbled. "It's all going to fall down on us..."

"Ahem." One of the two aides cleared her throat. "Group Commander, may I speak freely?"

"Sure."

The junior officer rose to her feet. "Okay, look – I don't like that woman at all, but she has a point about your behavior. If you dislike the way things are turning out, why aren't you taking charge? Making decisions? Being a _leader?_ We can stamp orders and format documents all day, but _you_ are still the commander here."

"I know," Renaril moaned. "I know and I _don't_ know! I don't know what's really going on or who I can trust, never mind how I'm supposed to snatch it all back from that – that..!"

"Group Commander!" The aide squared her shoulders, holding a fist in salute. "I, Negadael, will follow whatever orders you give. Even if you are surrounded by lies and treachery, _I_ will support you." She cast a pointed look at the other subordinate, busily typing away at her station as if nothing unusual were going on. "Eripol, back me up here!"

"Yeah, sounds good to me," Eripol answered absently, still typing. After several seconds she turned her head to look at Renaril. "We're here for you, ma'am. What's it going to be?"

It was a touching display of confidence, to be sure, but Renaril didn't feel any clouds parting. She slouched in her seat, listlessly dropping the PDA on the top of her own workstation. As she did this, however, a piece of text near the bottom of her screen caught her eye: _If you know the enemy as you know yourself,_ it read, _you will fare well in numerous battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, you will lose as often as you win. If you know neither yourself nor the enemy, every battle will bring you great danger._ The frustrated Arume blinked a few times, then scrolled up to the beginning of the same chapter and reread everything. She'd been in such a funk before that none of the ancient wisdom it offered had actually been absorbed into her consciousness. After rereading it all a second time, she pushed herself out of her chair.

Negadael was watching her apprehensively, perhaps aware that she'd been grossly out of place to say what she had. "Have you decided?" she asked at last.

"I've got an idea," said Renaril softly. "First of all, I need some concise information on arms dealers: what and where they buy and sell, what interests them, that kind of thing – never mind Schuhart specifically... Also see what you can find on contemporary mercenary and private military companies, and get whatever technical details you can for these ships." She pulled the data card out of the PDA and handed it to Eripol. "And some up to date weather forecasts for the Hong Kong ops area would be useful, if you can swipe any. I'll be back in a little while."

She'd been trying to grasp it all backwards, Renaril finally understood. Putting the vehicle ahead of the animal, was that how forime said it? Or was it that she had missed the forest for the trees?

* * *

"Tank desant," Daemon said, lecturing the gosta in the center of the park, "is a pretty dangerous business – we probably wouldn't teach very much of it if we weren't so poorly mechanized." He summarized this point on the portable blackboard beside him with a rod of sickly yellow chalk. "For the curious, 'desant' comes from the French for 'descent' by way of Russian and is here used in a sense of disembarking rather than falling." He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Of course, careless desant will bring you plenty of falls as well... In theory, desant from a tank is pretty simple: the infantry ride atop the tank until contact with the enemy is anticipated or actual. Ideally the tank then slows down long enough for the infantry to jump off, after which the tank and infantry fight together. Having done this myself a couple of times, I assure you that falling off will be your _least_ worry if you ride into battle as described: not only will you be an inviting target, sitting up high where every damned punter can see you, but you will also be entirely exposed to splash damage from anti-tank weapons."

"Even worse is splash damage from flying mud," one of his Russian assistants added cheerfully. "Ride in front, catch bullets – ride in back, catch mud instead!"

"That too," the African conceded irritably. "Anyway, the point is that this is a hazardous tactic and should be avoided unless absolutely necessary. A far safer practice is to – yes, Laforey, what is it?"

"Keiko wants you," Camilla said shortly. "Schuhart is coming back with prisoners."

* * *

"I'm back," Renaril announced. "Got anything new?"

"Forecast says the clouds will dissipate tomorrow night," Negadael reported. "Eripol is, ah, working on that summary for you."

"First part's done, if you want to see it now." The other aide punched a command macro. "It's on your terminal."

"Thank you." The group commander eased into her seat and opened the file. "This is quite a list of names," she remarked, looking over the header. "Zaharoff, Nanda, Wanta, Khashoggi, Cummings, Bout, Schreiber, Werbell... Why is Cummings highlighted?"

"Well," said Eripol casually, "I thought I'd save a little time by having a peek at what our competitor is researching. It seems Benacirael is quite interested in this Cummings man."

Renaril opened the page in question and frowned. "He's dead."

"Yeah," Eripol replied, her tone eminently offhand. "He was a major player last century, but now he and his company are both gone. I'm not sure what Benacirael sees that I don't, but she must think there's a connection."

"Maybe... Schuhart worked for him?"

"He's probably too young for that, if the age estimate on his meager profile is worth anything... Of course it's possible that Schuhart was influenced by Cummings' methods or wants to fill his shoes."

Renaril pursed her lips, wondering how far she wanted to get into the torturous subject of multiverse mechanics just now. "There's no arms dealer named Schuhart in the second layer," she said at length, "but there should have been a Cummings. Do we know anything about him?"

"I checked that, too – he died before the invasion and his known history is practically identical." Eripol scratched the back of her neck. "There was a book written about him when he was still in business, but it's not in the archive and I'm waiting to hear back about my requests for hard copy. That's all I have at the moment, sorry."

"Don't be sorry," said Renaril graciously. "This shan't be a dead end like that Edamamel thing... Anyway, what about those ships?"

"That part was easy," the junior Arume answered cheerfully. "_Chao Yang_-class, ex-ROC. The weapon and information systems are late-model forime tech, but the hulls underneath are seventy year old American castoffs. Their primary roles when last rebuilt were air defense and anti-submarine warfare. They're not considered a serious threat – our frigates could knock them out easily." _Tap-tap-tap!_ "There's the detailed specs."

"Thanks." The list of letters and numbers meant little to the commander, but she knew enough acronyms to make out that the destroyers relied heavily on missile systems. Looking up, she found Negadael watching her. "Something wrong..?"

"It might not be anything," the aide admitted, "but I noticed this when I was checking the reconnaissance office's intelligence for southern Chinese waters." She keyed in a macro of her own, bringing an orbital photograph up on the ops center's main screen. A patch of ocean was neatly framed in the wide rectangle, an oblong ship plowing through its center. "It was picked up this morning," Negadael explained. "We've provisionally identified it as an American tank carrier – it's heading straight for Hong Kong and estimated to arrive early the day after tomorrow, local time."

"A _Newport_-class landing ship," Eripol supplied. "Light on offensive power, but it can carry a small army. The American navy decommissioned all theirs years ago and most of them were sold off. Three are now in private hands."

"Let me guess," said Renaril grimly, taking in the large ramp and derrick on the vessel's forward deck, the monolithic superstructure, the asymmetrical staggered funnels and the large helicopter sitting on the pad at the stern. "Schuhart again?"

"Probably – the three were owned by Novaya Tula, the defunct Russian arms traders. If Schuhart bought up their east Asian assets as we've been told, there's a good chance he has at least one."

"A landing ship, you say... How does that work?"

"Hold on." There was another burst of typing on Eripol's part and the image changed to a closer photograph of an identical ship, the bow ramp extended onto the dock ahead of the vessel. A full size forime battle tank was driving off the deck. "There you have it."

"I see," Renaril mused. "Then it looks as if Schuhart intends to evacuate using this transport, with those destroyers for cover."

"Yeah," Eripol said. "But to do that he has to get through Benacirael's blockade, even if neither you nor the Chinese officials try to stop him... _Are_ you going to stop him?"

"I'm not sure yet," the group commander replied. "These dealers sound like awful people, but if they simply intend to stop interfering and leave... I don't know. It might cause less trouble if we just let them." She looked to Eripol. "Does Benacirael know about the tank carrier?"

"I don't think so."

"Let's hope she misses it," Renaril breathed. "By the way, how are you monitoring her?"

"Ah, well... I studied computerized reconnaissance at the academy." Eripol's look was one of chagrin. "I was pretty good at it, but I, uh, I went out with my girl the night before the final qualification... Didn't do so well in the morning, and then I got called up before I could take it again. It's pretty easy if you know where the backdoors are, really."

"...I see." Renaril returned her focus to the big picture. "I imagine these ships must be expensive to run."

"Fifteen million a year in current US dollars," Eripol informed her. "But apparently other arms traffickers have operated their own aircraft fleets, so I guess it's not strange that a sea vessel would be used like this."

"Mm..." Renaril scrolled down the page on her own screen. "Let me read the rest of this, and then we'll look at the next step."

* * *

"Companyyyyy... _Fffix bayoneeeeets!"_

Richardson's hands were slick with sweat as she grasped the heavy Mauser around its middle, tipped the muzzle skyward and slipped the slim accessory knife over the slotted bar under the barrel. Stealing a glance to either side, she saw with a flash of guilty pride that Harrington and Rubin were both still finishing theirs.

_"Maaaaake... readyyy!"_

The girl smartly leveled her rifle, supporting arm extended and the plywood stock braced against her hip. She sucked in as much air as her young lungs could hold.

Camilla made a chopping motion with her hand. _"Chaaaaaaarge!"_

Sixteen gosta surged forward across ragged grass, bayonets and barrels dully gleaming in the gloom. The line of ragged mattresses arranged ahead stood no chance, soon pierced again and again until daylight could be seen through their stained sides.

"Excellent," the Briton called. "Very good energy, all of you!" She strode towards the group, clapping her hands. "Now, everyone take a breather and then we'll try it again."

Rubin and Webley didn't react positively. "Please," the latter wheezed, "enough... already..!"

"Now, now," Camilla remonstrated, "you may hurt now, but tomorrow it'll be your foe who hurts!"

"I hope it's not _that_ soon," Benelli quipped, drawing ragged laughter from the other trainees.

As the last giggles faded, Richardson made out the comforting noise of the Kettenkrad. "Listen," she called. "Uncle Roland's coming." True to her words, the diminutive half-track soon hove into view and rattled across the park to the tent camp. Karan and Woodpecker had also arrived by the time Camilla and the gosta got there.

"Hi guys," Schuhart grunted as he hauled himself out and reached for his brace, the two Russians riding with him having already jumped off. "Things going okay here?"

"We've been working up a good sweat," Camilla confirmed. "So what's the story with this lot?"

"Ah." Brace fitted, Schuhart unslung his Thompson and fixed the five individuals in the Kettenkrad's trailer with a very ugly look. Richardson, for her part, had been expecting more Arume collaborators in their distinct uniforms. While these four men and one woman were clearly prisoners, all sitting with hands bound behind them, they wore green camouflage and an arm patch depicting a flag with white, blue and red stripes. "We met an enemy probe north of the treatment plant. They tried to attack us under a flag of truce, we lit them up and these are the survivors."

"I, er, didn't realize you were at war with Russia," Camilla observed.

"We aren't," the one-eyed man snorted. "Don't be fooled by the rags they're wearing... No," he went on, walking around to the captive woman, "it's another sky eyes and her flunkies. She won't talk, of course, so it's an open question whether this was a sanctioned probe or a lone idiot looking for quick glory... You know, this shade of hair dye really doesn't suit you."

Richardson shivered at the female prisoner's expression of pure malevolence. "How did you know they were fakes?"

"Their equipment was all wrong," Schuhart answered cheerfully. "Not one actually spoke the language and they all fought like stoned wallabies... On top of that, one of the casualties had _this_ nifty item on him." He produced a small but thick book with a series of letter and number codes on the cover. "It's a field manual commissioned by the aliens for issue to Terran collaborators, detailing allied and enemy uniforms, weapons, vehicles and so forth." The arms dealer opened the book and thumbed to a page not quite halfway through, then passed the volume to Karan. "The section on Kalashnikovs is quite biased, but check out this hovercraft assault gun – it looks like a Sturmgeschutz done over in Art Deco!"

"Looks like a load of rubbish to me," the Indian snorted. "So what next?"

"Next I'd like to find some food, since I haven't eaten all day." Schuhart looked over the captives. "We'll put you lot in the stockade for the time being, such as it is, and if you're lucky the sky eyes will actually make an effort to get you back." When the bound Arume spat in his direction, he curled his lip. "Or we could hand you over to Captain Ramazonov and his seafaring friends in Macau, instead – but since you've been caught feigning a truce and impersonating a neutral state's personnel, both of which are war crimes, I wouldn't expect a warm reception from them." Turning his back on her, the cyclops nodded to Woodpecker. "Away with them, if you please."

* * *

Many kilometers to the south, a fourth vessel had escaped the notice of the Arume on high. It was painted a hazy gray and flew no flag just like the others, but was considerably smaller and derived its momentum primarily from the sails on its lone mast. An observer coming from astern would see that it was the _Vegemite Explorer_ of Karumba, though the incongruity thereof was wasted on those who stood to loose the most by the completion of the boat's voyage.

In the shade of the towering mainsail, a man in swim trunks was rancorously singing: "Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda, ya'll come a-waltzing Matilda wi' me... An' he sang as 'e watched an' waited 'til his – _oy!"_

"Give it up, yah fruit loop," his sole companion at the helm complained as the freshly flung wet sponge fell to the deck. "Any more nation'l stereotypin' an' I'll 'ave to sell yah to a soovineer shop!"

"As if yer any better, pooftah!" The assailed singer recovered the sponge, wrung it out and tossed it back into the cockpit. "You'n yer bleedin' _best song inna world!"_ He slouched atop the cabin indignantly. "I 'ope there's no ankle-biters where we're goin'."

"No worries," the helmsman cackled. "I'll scare 'em right offa yah." Now he too began to sing. "We're no strangers to looooove: you know the rules, and so do Iiiii... A full commit-ment's what I'm – _waugh!"_

The deck watch wore an expression of smug glee as he dropped the empty bucket. "Eyes on the helm, yah silly bastard, or ole Roland'll hafta swim to us."


	14. Spitfires Taxiing

_Part 13: Spitfires Taxiing_

_Lung Cheung Road_

_Wong Tai Sin District, Hong Kong SAR_

_March 16th, 2016_

"Hnnnnnggg... Nnnnngggh... Nnnnn..!"

Richardson watched the scene in front of her with skyrocketing alarm. "Uncle Roland, what are you doing..?"

"Me?" the man grunted distractedly. "Just trying to – _whoops!"_ Schuhart went over backwards as his crowbar and the lid of the crate he'd been attacking flew away in opposite directions, striking the pavement with a series of resounding clangs.

The gosta were massed around him in a flash: _"Uncle Roland, are you all right?"_

Schuhart defiantly thrust a fist into the air. "Ore wo dare da to omotte!?" When he didn't get whatever reaction he seemed to expect, he rolled over and gingerly pushed himself up. "Ow-ow-ow..."

Satisfied that Uncle Roland wasn't hurt, Richardson drifted over to the open crate. It contained more old rifles, longer than the ones she and her sisters had trained with thus far, neatly packed in staggered rows. The girl impulsively grasped the straight, stubby handle of the nearest weapon's bolt and opened it to see inside: her fingers came away coated in a thin film of malodorous brown slime. "Uh..."

"Cosmoline," Schuhart explained, proffering a rag for her to wipe the stuff off. "Standard preservative for long-term storage of metal items. If you stay in this line of work, you'll be seeing a lot of it."

"Ah." The gosta looked down at the rifle. "What is this?"

"Vintovka Mosina." The lame man lifted the rifle out, unperturbed by the greasy residue on it. "Soviet issue from the forties, dirt-cheap and rock-solid. These were leftovers from a recent order – we were going to ship them back to one of our depots when the trouble started... Now we're short of small arms and there's nothing else we can give to the Ersatzgruppen."

"The what..?"

"Substitute units." Schuhart cleared his throat. "It seems that word of our exploits has filtered upland to the survivor camp in Yuen Long: last night more than a hundred displaced persons snuck out and slipped back into the destroyed city. Current head count is one-twenty-two, and every one of them volunteered to stand and fight with us. Problem is, none of 'em have a lick of experience and I can't count on them to be speedy learners like you... But if we can at least train them to hit the narrow side of a barn, we'll be able to use them as rearguard troops and free up more of our professional crew for the heavy lifting."

"I understand," Sauer interjected crisply. "How can we help?"

"You can help," Schuhart said, motioning to the still-sealed crates beyond the open one, "by giving me a hand unpacking and cleaning these."

* * *

There was a softness in Kang Li's sleeping face which Renaril had never once seen when the temperamental Chinese female was awake. She'd enjoyed the sight only in fleeting snatches before now, indulging in guilty peeks when she was supposed to be doing work. This time, with the colonel lying supine in chemical-controlled hibernation under a shimmering force field, the Arume could take a minute to really absorb the view.

She could have stood there for hours, mesmerized by the subtle rise and fall of the captive's chest, if the guard on duty hadn't cautiously approached. "Can I help you, Group Commander?"

"I need the items the prisoner was carrying," Renaril replied, hoping she sounded sufficiently firm. _If you go out of your way to be polite to everyone, they'll think you're a wuss._ Such had been Eripol's advice to her boss. _Sometimes you just have to walk in like you own the place and hope the underlings fall for it._

The guard looked conflicted by the demand. "Group Commander Benacirael left specific instructions that the objects seized are not to be removed without a signature and her personal – "

"I'm not going to abscond with the evidence," Renaril snorted, putting on an affronted expression. "Now stop _wasting my time_ and let me inspect the material."

The guard decided that obedience was the better part of duty and led the officer to a row of compact lockers. "Here," she said in a meek voice, pressing upon the smart-lock's biometric reader. When the narrow inner drawer extended, the subordinate stepped back respectfully.

Renaril looked over the contents rapidly: a pistol with holster and magazines, a pocket notebook, a mechanical pencil, a ring of keys, a wallet, a much-creased bundle of what looked like administrative paperwork, a chunky satellite communication handset, a pair of candy wrappers – she made a note to look up the brand and flavor, strictly for investigative purposes of course – a postcard depicting Mount Fuji, mailed from Matsumoto in Japan a month prior, and lastly a hard rubber eraser. "This is everything?"

"Yes."

_All war is based on deception._ Such was Sun Zi's advice. "Are you _sure?"_ Renaril pinned the guard with a steely gaze. "Think carefully."

"Uh, well..." The guard rose to the bait, assuming the probe was some kind of aptitude test. She hastily examined the drawer's contents. "It should all be here... Wait." Nervous fingers quickly turned over some of the larger artifacts. "There was a scrap of loose paper with some numbers on it... Maybe Group Commander Benacirael took it with her?"

"Oh, come now." Renaril put her hands on her hips. "Are you suggesting that Benacirael would insist on keeping a record of things taken out and then be so thoughtless as to forget her own order?"

"Um... No, but..."

"But nothing. Where's the deposit manifest?"

"The – the group commander said she didn't need one."

Renaril squinted menacingly. "So you went against regulations and didn't write it."

The guard raised her hands, slipping into blind panic. "No, no! I did write a manifest, it's just not been entered into the system!"

"Then _enter_ it," the senior Arume growled. "And get me a copy, _just in case."_

"Yes, ma'am!" the guard squeaked. "I'll do it now!"

She fled, leaving Renaril and the drawer alone. Renaril couldn't suppress a triumphant smirk as she resumed her perusal of the articles in question unsupervised. Her parents would have conniptions if they'd caught her doing something like this, and yet she couldn't for a moment deny that she enjoyed bullying the poor woman. The happy feeling fast withered, however, when she realized that Kang would definitely consider her attitude childish and unprofessional. Renaril could perfectly imagine the colonel's voice saying exactly that as she picked up the notebook.

Most of Kang's notes were recorded in what Renaril assumed was Mandarin Chinese – it was unintelligible to her, at any rate. Neat columns of Indo-Arabic numerals denoted some sort of accounting, maybe of unit strengths or logistical matters, and the colonel seemed to prefer transcribing items from other languages in Latin characters: here and there the Arume would spot single words or short phrases, most of them in English and partitioned between quotation marks. A whole thirteen pages were dedicated to a transcript of what Renaril guessed was an American politician's speech on Chinese military spending, which Kang had extensively annotated in miniscule ideographs.

Coming to blank pages without finding obvious evidence of the conspiracy Benacirael alleged, Renaril exchanged the notebook for the loose papers. These looked official: some of the same letterheads had appeared on documents reviewed and signed by Renaril herself before matters turned sour. Unable to glean more from them, she examined the wallet – it contained only Kang's identification cards, some receipts and some Chinese currency – and then the postcard. The writing on the back was more Chinese, and the Arume took it to be a greeting from an expatriate acquaintance. It wasn't much help to her quest, and so it too was discarded.

Curiosity got the better of her, and she next transferred her attention to Kang's weapon. It looked absurdly large in her delicate hand as she ran a fingertip over the words stamped on its roughly machined frame: _MADE IN CHINA_. Though she knew almost nothing about this aspect of forime technology, she recognized the logo of the North Industries Corporation on the grips and upper flank and deduced that _NP28_ was a type designation.

The guard's footsteps drew near and Renaril furtively returned the pistol to its place. "All done," the returning sentry announced, plainly hoping for approval. "Did you find the paper?"

"It's not here," the officer answered. "The manifest..?"

The guard produced a data card and proffered it eagerly. "Right here."

Renaril slotted the compact package into her PDA, copied the contents and returned the item. "I think that will be all for now," she said smoothly. "Thanks."

"Not at all," the other protested. "Um..."

"Performance review coming up?" Renaril inquired nonchalantly.

"...Yes."

"I don't think one missing paper will cost you too much standing..." The group commander offered a sly wink. "But I won't say anything if you don't."

"Thank you, ma'am." Relief flooded over the subordinate Arume's face. "I really appreciate it."

"It's the least I can do," said the officer, making ready to leave. "Good luck with the review."

* * *

"Here's a bit of historical trivia for you," said Schuhart as he grasped a greasy bolt in his hands. "Back in the old days an insurgent or partisan in desperate need of a half-decent hideaway gun might resort to sawing the barrel and stock off a piece like this." There was a metallic _snap_ as two pieces of the bare steel assembly became detached. After inspecting them critically, the arms dealer passed everything into Carcano's waiting hands and accepted the next complete bolt from Astra. "The Russians called that an 'obrez' and it's the next best thing to having a nuclear warhead under your coat... When this is over I'll have to make one out of a nice ugly beater, so you can see it yourselves."

_When this is over._ Midway down the second of the group's three assembly lines, Richardson found herself beginning to really look forward to such a time. Moving as quickly as her gloved hands would allow, she picked up the core of another stripped rifle – its barrel and the few parts which were attached directly to that long, heavy tube – and held it muzzle-down while Korth used a long device with a trailing hose to blast jets of steam into the breech. A little puddle of water formed on the cracked tarmac below, oily swirls lazily undulating across its surface.

* * *

"Did it work?"

"I played it just as you said." Renaril sank into her seat with a relieved sigh. "I can't believe we pulled that off... I feel so guilty."

Eripol grinned. "Told you she was a pushover."

"Pushover or not," Negadael cut in, "this had better have been worth it. Did you get anything, ma'am?"

"Not really," Renaril admitted. "But it seems that Colonel Kang had a scrap of paper which has gone missing. Luckily the guard was diligent enough to record it in the deposit list, which gives us..." She copied the string of digits from her PDA to the main screen.

"Looks like a forime telephone number," Eripol noted. "I don't recognize the country code, though." The aide's fingers danced across her keyboard. "Aha – it's a satellite network."

"Satellite," Renaril repeated. "Kang had a satellite phone herself... Those things work with regular phones, don't they?"

"Satphones are tied into the landline and cellular nets, yeah."

"So she wouldn't absolutely need it just to call someone else who has one..." Renaril's brow furrowed. "Satellite phones are meant for use in remote areas without land infrastructure, right?"

Eripol nodded. "And areas where conventional communications systems are damaged or compromised..."

"I see," Renaril said slowly. "But then who does this number belong to?"

Eripol and Negadael looked at one another. "I think," the latter opined, "that if you dialed it now, a certain arms dealer would pick up."

"Wha..? How do you figure _that?"_

"I see the logic," said Eripol. "Right now Hong Kong would be a perfect place to have a satphone... But obviously the easiest way to find out is to do just what my colleague suggests."

Renaril blinked. "Call and see who answers? Can we really do that?"

"Sure," the tech wiz answered cheerfully. "I can route it through our provisional link to the planetary networks. Can't guarantee it'll be a secure connection, though."

"And _if_ this works and _if_ Roland Schuhart answers, what then?"

"The customer is always right." Eripol shrugged. "Extend a laurel branch, pretend you want to buy something, whatever you like."

"Olive branch," Negadael corrected. "A gesture of peace used by the ancient forime cultures of the southern Balkans, its specific origin – "

"Yeah, yeah," the other subordinate retorted, "close enough... Gimme a half-cycle to set up the proxy."

* * *

"...And he says, 'Watson, you fool, it means someone has stolen our tent!'"

There was laughter all around, and Richardson was able to ignore the burn on her forearm for a little while. Though she hadn't understood most of Schuhart's jokes, she appreciated that he was trying to lift the girls' spirits as they worked. "Tell us another one, please."

"Well, let's see... Ahem... Once, there was an old man – eh?" Schuhart broke off to unclip his chirping satphone. "Hello?"

* * *

Renaril took a deep breath and tried one last time to assure herself that this was a legit tactic. "Uh, hello," she began hesitantly. "I'm, ah, trying to reach Roland Schuhart."

_"Well, you've reached me... So what can I do for you, Group Commander Renaril?"_

The Arume gasped. "H-how did you – ?"

* * *

"Clairvoyance." Schuhart rolled his solitary eye. "I don't give my number out to just anyone, and you don't sound like you're calling about the clearance sale on Tupolevs... Anyway, you sure took your sweet time getting in contact." The eyes of all the gosta were on him as he frowned. "What do you mean, how much?"

* * *

"I mean..." Realizing she was getting flustered, Renaril took a moment to compose herself. "How much were you paid for this job?"

_"And by extension, how much more would you have to pay me to do things your way?"_ There was a sardonic laugh of wince-inducing proportions. _"Who do you think I'm working for?"_

Renaril had a feeling she was being made fun of, and she didn't like it. "You're working for dissidents in the Chinese government," she accused, "trying to disrupt Beijing's negotiations with us by engineering false acts of terrorism!"

_"You're not the sharpest bayonet on the rack,"_ the man retorted irritably. _"D'you actually know what my job is?"_

"An arms dealer buys up obsolete or unwanted weapons and resells them without regard for laws or customs."

* * *

"Textbook answer," Schuhart snorted. "Too bad the textbook was written by world-class hypocrites... That aside, don't you notice what's _missing_ from the answer?" He rolled his eye again. "I buy and sell arms, exactly as it says. My job is to supply hardware to other people – _they_ do the fighting, not me."

Richardson wished she could hear the other side of the conversation: even by itself the half she picked up sounded quite important.

* * *

Renaril thought she could see where her opponent was trying to steer this exchange, and wanted no part of it. "Enough of your excuses," she snapped. "Colonel Kang confessed everything!"

_"Really?"_ Schuhart sounded neither surprised nor impressed by the name-dropping. _"If you say that, you're either a liar or a fool, which I find quite plausible, or else Kang is a liar, which I find less plausible... Why should I believe you?"_

"That – that's what _I'm_ supposed to say," the Arume complained. "Anyway, she had your number! She was arrested after secretly meeting with you! You can't deny that!"

_"I wasn't planning to."_ The arms dealer's voice softened. _"Kang was supposed to tell you what's been going on, but it doesn't sound as if she gave you the real story at all."_

The change in tone was a sucker punch to Renaril. Why did the man suddenly sound so disappointed? "I... didn't hear it directly from her," she hedged, hoping to draw him out. "She was carefully questioned with, um, chemical aids, but I wasn't there for it personally... I was given a transcript afterward."

_"A transcript... Text, not an audio or video record? So all you actually have is somebody else's word that the colonel said what you think she said? Where is she now?"_

The barrage of questions knocked Renaril off balance again. "She's a prisoner here... In an induced sleep, I mean."

_"So wake her up."_

"I..." Renaril hesitated momentarily, then plowed on. "I can't," she said softly. "Because of all this trouble, the Hong Kong area has been transferred to another commander. I can't summon Kang without her permission."

_"Hoo boy... Sounds to me like it's the worst case scenario after all. Before I say anything else, Group Commander, who else is listening in on this?"_

A glance to either side revealed Negadael and Eripol listening raptly. "Uh... Just my assistants."

_"Are they trustworthy?"_

"...Yes."

_"Fine. You got a gun?"_

"Er, no."

* * *

"Get one," Schuhart ordered. "Learn to use it and keep it with you." He suddenly turned around and motioned for Richardson to bring him the barrel she still held. "Because your life won't be worth much if the real plotters catch on to you, that's why... Now listen carefully – you've been told this is a conspiracy, directed by the Chinese and employing myself, for the purpose of making your job difficult, is that right? ...Uh-huh." Leaning forward, he inspected the Russian steel with a critical eye. "Now _I'm_ telling you this is really a conspiracy, directed by your own comrades and employing Japanese hitmen, for the purpose of fabricating a pretext for you Arume to seize control of China while the government in Beijing has its collective pants around its knees. Can you wrap your head around that?"

* * *

"But... But..." Her aides probably thought Renaril looked like a stranded fish. "I'm in charge of the Sino-Arumic liaison and I don't want to seize control of anything..."

_"Doesn't matter. If I'm right, you were supposed to be a convenient casualty of that first attack in Shenzhen... It was just your good luck that the flunkies missed."_

"Luck?" the officer pondered aloud. "No... It wasn't luck, it was the colonel. She protected me."

_"That sounds more like the Kang I know... Now listen, I don't have concrete proof for all of this. I can prove the Japanese connection – they attacked us as well as you, and we've got their papers, their guns and their corpses – but the rest is one part conjecture and two parts suspicious overlap. I could still be wrong, but it's looking more and more like I'm not."_

"Wait," Renaril pleaded, struggling to match the other's rapid revelations. "You talk as if you were just a, uh, an innocent bystander in all this, even when you have armed men on the ground, and you seriously want me to believe all the attacks on us were someone else's doing, while you haven't fired a shot? If you weren't involved in this before, why are you part of it now?"

_"It's not true that we haven't fired any shots,"_ Schuhart corrected. _"That air patrol you lost after the bombardment, that was us – pure self-defense, mind you... As for your second question, I'm part of it now because I had offices and staff in the city. We stayed behind when the civilians fled, so we're all that's left down here."_

"And... what about Colonel Kang?"

_"After the dust settled, we began evacuating the remaining survivors. I wasn't sure I could count on you sky eyes to leave well enough alone, so I gave my number and a spare satphone to one of them as insurance... When Kang went to Yuen Long, he passed them on to her and she called me. I hadn't heard from her in months, and I gather my presence was a bit of a rude surprise. We met briefly to compare notes – that's all."_

Time for another deep breath. "You've told me a very disturbing story," Renaril conceded, "but if it's true, who is the mastermind? Who is really directing this?"

* * *

"I don't know and I'm not in a position to find out. Who's nominally in charge of our miserable patch of turf now? ...Be-na-ci-rael, what a name... Yeah, I'd say she's a suspect – and to judge by the posturing of the troops at the perimeter, she's itching for a fight. I reckon you've got maybe a few days at best to turn up solid gold, otherwise somebody up there will be signing a lot of bereavement letters."

At Schuhart's nod, Richardson passed the barrel along and picked up another. That name, Benacirael, was fixed in her mind – the name of the enemy.

* * *

"Bereavement? I don't understand."

_"You don't have such a custom? 'Dear Missus and Missus So-and-so, it is with the deepest regret that I inform you of the untimely death of your daughter,' et cetera."_

Renaril suddenly remembered a scene from a forime war film which Elaqebil had badgered her into watching. "You can't..." Her throat was suddenly dry. "You can't stay there and fight against Arume, it's impossible..!"

_"You think your colleague is going to just let us leave?"_ Schuhart's voice had gone cold again. _"The world is watching, Group Commander. If you don't want to see us clear an exit in the bloodiest way possible, you'd better get cracking. I have my own people to look out for, and after what you've done to this city I'm under no obligation to go out of my way for you... Now I've used up enough minutes holding your hand, and it's time to get back to work. Do you want these prisoners back or don't you?"_

The officer swallowed. "I... didn't realize you had any."

_"Figures... One of your squads crossed the perimeter yesterday and fired on us, disguised as Russian soldiers. We're holding one Arume and four second-layer grunts. If you don't want them, we'll turn them over to the Russian navy."_

"...Can I call you back? Please?"

_"You know where to reach me, but don't take too long... And don't let anything happen to Kang, you hear?"_

The connection broke off, leaving Renaril to quietly bury her face in her hands. "Whyyyyyyyyyy..?"

"That didn't go so well," Eripol remarked, evidently angling for a stating-the-obvious award. "I guess we'll just – ack!"

"What..?"

"Someone's tapping my proxy!"

* * *

If Azanael wasn't careful, these impulsive actions would be the death of her: while her scheme was plenty harebrained in itself, the fact that she barely knew the ins and outs of _Hyacinth_'s engineering section didn't help. She already knew how to perform most single-person checks and repairs by the time she'd reached the rank of crew chief – and when a pilot couldn't fix something, an engineer was called straight to the hangar. On the other hand, getting lost might actually work in her favor this time: right now the tall Arume wasn't just looking for two hands and a wrench, she was looking for two hands in particular.

Wandering through long halls lined with power conduits, past towering junction boxes and over suspended catwalks, she must have encountered dozens of engineers by now... And yet the one she wanted still eluded her. Discouragement had firmly established itself in her mind by the time she had nearly completed her circumnavigation of the behemoth's belly.

And then, almost within sight of the exit, Azanael found her: the tall Arume with the braid and the chief engineer's bars. She was leaning against a bulkhead, a portable terminal balanced on her upturned palm. A thick cable, the shielded type used when working in high-radiation environments, ran from the computer to a wall socket. Another shielded cable ran to the heavy earphones which dangled by the woman's knee.

"Excuse me," Azanael called, "I need some help with my cooling manifolds."

The engineer raised an eyebrow. "Was that a come-on?"

"No," the pilot replied bluntly. "I've got a Type Forty-Eight scouter that's giving me a lot of vibration on startup."

"Same old problem?" The other woman folded the terminal and pulled the plug. "That's not my specialty, but I guess I can take a look at it."

"Thanks," Azanael said, leading the way to the nearest elevator. "Central dispatching said they'd send someone up, but nothing happened."

"Not the first time," said the engineer sympathetically as the elevator doors closed. "Nothing seems to happen quickly on the lower decks... Your manifolds, it's the same with them. They wouldn't crack if the U-bend arc were widened, but that would require a redesign of the entire block – and good luck getting _that_ approved by the cheapskates running everything these days."

"Yes..." Azanael waited a few moments, then began her attack. "By the way, er..?"

"...Kataphel." The engineer sounded almost as if she'd been hoping the pilot wouldn't ask.

"By the way, Kataphel, what can you tell me about Roland Schuhart?"

There was a long silence. "That's not a name you should be throwing around casually."

"So you _do_ know something."

"I can't talk about it. The penalties wouldn't apply only to myself." Kataphel glanced sideways. "You of all Arume should appreciate the risks of indiscretion, Flight Chief."

So word of Azanael's checkered past was still making the rounds. "Then you're content to merely sit back and watch?"

"We have no right to stay aloof." The engineer's voice was at once bitter and sorrowful. "We broke a promise and cannot be absolved."

* * *

"Uncle Roland?"

"Yes, Borchardt?"

"Why do you think the Arume came to this world?"

"Didn't someone already ask me that?" Schuhart carefully guided a bolt into its channel and slid it home. "It's not like I have any special insights on hormone-addled space invader psychology."

The gosta looked disappointed, as did most of her sisters. "Can you guess?"

"Sure I can." Tipping the rifle upwards, the arms dealer slipped the socket of a bayonet over its muzzle and locked the long spike in place with a flick of his wrist. "If you ask me," he went on, retracting the bolt and inserting a stripper clip, "the Arume want what the United States wants." He tossed the clip aside, chambering a round with cool precision. "They want what Russia wants. They want what China and India want." The Mosin-Nagant's full length seemed to extend in a straight line from his shoulder as he raised it. "They want to be the first to resurrect the Evangelions."

The harsh sound of defiance rebounded off the faces of surviving buildings and steep hills alike, its echoes cascading until they were the thunder of the very storm which the shot portended.


	15. Whatever Moral Ascendancy

_Part 14: Whatever Moral Ascendancy_

_Lion Rock Tunnel_

_New Kowloon, Hong Kong SAR_

_March 18th, 2016_

"This is the end for Kowloon," Kang Li pronounced solemnly. "Sha Tin and Hong Kong Island, as well... Even Second Impact didn't destroy them like you have."

Knowing that Kang meant 'you' in an impersonal and plural sense didn't help Renaril, who already was close to tears. She resolutely kept her eyes pinned on the collapsed road overpass directly to the south, her back facing the twin tunnel mouths which emerged from the green slopes of the hill looming above. She couldn't stomach more than one look in that direction, more than one look at the twisted, burnt-out vehicles piled around the tunnels and the wide patches of dried blood staining the pavement.

Her Chinese companion displayed no such distress. "I didn't understand why Schuhart was so confident," she admitted. "If I had, I would have called him a madman." Kang stepped closer to an area where the road was liberally strewn with spent casings and picked up a large shell from a loose pile. "Serb fifty millimeter... It's brand new. Small wonder those antiques were so effective."

"Colonel." The Arume finally turned, cheeks shining wet. "Please..."

"They're calling it the 'Saint Patrick's Day Massacre.'" Kang laid the empty shell to rest with its fellows, her expression unreadable. "The world has seen what you wished to hide. Whatever you actually won or lost here will ultimately be irrelevant."

Renaril suddenly dashed forward and flung her arms around the taller woman, burying her face in Kang's shirt. Only her sobbing could be heard for a long time after.

* * *

_One day earlier_

"Up! Everybody up!" Richardson's eyes snapped open at the shock of Schuhart yelling nearby. "On your feet, people! Action stations! Let's _go!"_

The gosta wriggled out of her bedding as engines rumbled outside the tent, Harrington, Krieghoff and Lebel close behind. Poking her head out, Richardson saw the long profile of the big half-track silhouetted in early morning light. The sky had cleared overnight, she realized, and soon the sun would rise. Snatching up her socks and sneakers, she scrambled into the open. "Uncle Roland, what's happening?"

"The enemy's mobilizing." Schuhart raised his voice again. "Gosta, rally on me!" Without waiting he turned on his good heel and strode towards the tracked vehicle, where Nereus and one of the Russians were hitching a gun on a two-wheel carriage to its rear end. "Move, move, _move!"_

* * *

"Wake her up. _Now."_

The guard – it was the same one who had proven so malleable before – bit her lip. "But Benacirael – "

"Benacirael is about to undo everything we have tried to accomplish in this layer." Renaril bared her teeth. _"Do it."_

"Y-yes, ma'am!"

While the subordinate ran off to carry out the order, Renaril placed herself beside the hibernation box which held Kang. When the force field faded away, she carefully reached out and stroked the sleeping woman's smooth cheek. _If I can sneak her out of here,_ she told herself, _we might still have a chance._

* * *

"Here's the short 'n' scrawny," Schuhart barked, gesturing to the large map hastily taped to the side of the half-track. "The enemy are advancing from Yuen Long, Shek Kong and Tai Po." He indicated these locations with swift jabs of his finger. "Forces on the ground are probably Terran collaborator infantry supported by Arume assault hovercraft. We expect the Arume to also attempt an attack over water from the south or west using hovercraft or larger vehicles. The Russians let it be known that they'd declare war at the first sign of 'special weapons' use, which might work in our favor." The one-eyed man glanced over his audience – the gosta and a large group of Hong Kong resident volunteers – before continuing. "We have two objectives, one on the water and one on land. The first is to break through the Arume blockade and allow the landing ship waiting offshore to begin on-site support. Our two destroyers will attack the blockading units and provide fire support in the channel. We've deployed batteries of artillery along the shore – those will defend the south side against enemy raiders and landing attempts from the surface or the air... Any questions about the first objective?"

Sauer raised a hand. "What happens when the, uh, landing ship gets here?"

"We'll determine that when the time comes, based on the tactical situation... Now, the land objective is simple: we need to hold as much of Kowloon as we can. If that fails, we'll be forced to retreat to Hong Kong Island and Lantau. The land attack is most likely to be launched from Sha Tin, passing through either the Lion Rock or Tate's Cairn tunnels or possibly along the Tai Po Road, so we've deployed forward troops to secure those already... The tunnels will protect the enemy from bombardment, but they also create choke points which we can exploit. Your squad leaders will give you more details on that... Questions? No? Report to your squads – dismissed!"

* * *

"Nnnnn..." Kang opened one eye, then the other. "Renaril..?"

The Arume's pulse leaped. "Are you all right?" she asked anxiously. "Do you feel sick?"

"No." The forime frowned. "How long... What day is it?"

"The seventeenth," Renaril supplied promptly. "The sun will rise over Hong Kong soon... Colonel, I think we've run out of time."

Kang used her elbows to push herself into a sitting position. "What's happened?"

"I'm not sure how it started, but during the night a large number of the displaced forime in Yuen Long tried to push out of their camp and return to the destroyed districts. Now Benacirael is using it as an excuse to attack Schuhart directly."

"Schuhart..." Kang looked at Renaril suspiciously.

"I talked to him yesterday, using the satellite telephone. He told me a completely different story than what I got from Benacirael."

"I see." Kang swung her legs over the edge and placed her bare feet on the cool floor. "What... did you think of Schuhart?"

"He didn't _seem_ like someone conspiring to fake terrorism," the group commander confessed, "just annoyed and rude... But how could you be friends with someone like him?"

"We weren't always like this," the soldier grunted, pulling her socks on. "At first I loathed him, even."

"And then?"

"Things happened. Where are my shoes?"

* * *

_Supplementary document: excerpt from chapter two of Arbuthnot Ponsonby's _The Greatest War_, first published by Oxford 3L Press in 2041_

Schuhart's material resources were paltry compared to his opponent's, their common determination to settle matters with a violent clash regardless. Eto Delo's surviving staff in Hong Kong numbered a hundred and fifty at best, though a solid majority were Russian or Soviet bloc military veterans with extensive combat experience. Most were armed with various Kalashnikov assault rifles, supplemented by antitank grenade launchers and Indian copies of the Lee-Enfield rifle and Bren machine gun. They were supported by a hundred and twenty local volunteers who were issued the hard-hitting Mosin-Nagant rifle but had received barely a day's training, and by sixteen renegade gosta with little better. To improve their potential, the volunteer sections were each led by a company veteran.

Due to the critical shortage of arms and vehicles, all items remaining in commercial inventory and the entire portion of the Kampfgruppe Klapp collection which had already been shipped to Hong Kong were also put to use. Eto Delo's prime movers included an SdKfz 251 and two SdKfz 7 halftracks. Six 88mm towed cannon formed the backbone of the harbour defence, while a single 50mm antitank gun was deployed on the north front. Vehicle crews were issued the weapons abandoned by Erich Klapp's Panzergrenadiers in 1944. To alleviate the lack of armour, the defending side liberated an operable Sherman bulldozer tank from the ruins of the Museum of Human History. Its main gun had been deactivated, but it was successfully fitted with two .30 calibre and one .50 calibre machine gun and assigned to clear obstacles and support advancing infantry. A pair of M35 medium lorries were equipped with heavy machine guns for the same purpose. A number of light lorries which survived the bombing on 13 March were upgraded with Brens and employed as scouts, as were a handful of motorboats.

It was clear from the beginning that neither side intended to adhere to the customs of conventional war. While the Arume commanders authorized the deployment of flamethrowers and chemical weapons to frontline units, Eto Delo organized small raiding parties nicknamed 'punk busters' and equipped them with highly accurate Mauser rifles. Firing a type of explosive-incendiary ammunition originally developed for Luftwaffe machine guns, these offered the potential to inflict both physically and psychologically devastating wounds at long range. Certain of Eto Delo's other policies were comparatively generous, however: it was ordered that prisoners be taken and treated humanely whenever practical, a gesture not reciprocated by Benacirael.

* * *

Richardson and Harrington scored another ride aboard the Kettenkrad as the reinforcement convoy moved out. The operator, a man named Semyon, drove at the head of the column with a trailer full of ammunition behind him. Following the diminutive rig was the bigger half-track, towing the two-wheeled cannon which Nereus mysteriously called a 'pack'. Sauer had asked for and somehow gotten gunner duty aboard the noisy vehicle, and Richardson could see the other gosta grinning at her from the far end of the top gun. She liked that thing too much, the spotter thought wryly, then wondered if her own partner was any different: the scoped M14 hadn't left Harrington's hands since Uncle Roland gave it to her before disappearing to some other part of the battleground.

More importantly, what was she supposed to feel now? Not happy, she understood that much, yet she couldn't deny that she'd been looking forward to this. She _wanted_ to fight the Arume and their cronies. The Chinese volunteers wanted to fight too, but Uncle Roland and his friends – Nereus and Karan and Daemon and Woodpecker and the others – acted more as if this were an annoyance and a distraction from their customary routines.

She was still pondering this when the half-track astern suddenly lost speed and pulled off towards the side of the wide road. Twisting around, the girl reached forward and prodded Semyon's back. He glanced over his shoulder momentarily before throttling down and looping back. When the Kettenkrad stopped, the Russian dismounted and jogged over to the motionless half-track. Richardson couldn't understand the exchange between him and the driver, so she merely waited for Semyon to return. "We have breakdown," he announced. "Got to trade cargo and crew – you stay here, protect driver and follow when repair finished."

The other fighters had already disembarked from the disabled carrier and quickly set about removing the Kettenkrad's load. The second driver – it was Vyacheslav, who had been working on the same machine earlier – climbed onto the half-track's sloped nose and opened an access panel. The rest of the convoy drove on, one truck after another passing them and disappearing into the two tunnels ahead. The Kettenkrad followed once all the other troops had climbed onto its rear or into the emptied trailer, leaving Richardson, Harrington and Sauer alone with Vyacheslav.

* * *

"We need detailed, up-to-date intelligence," Kang declared once she and Renaril were holed up in the command room with Negadael and Eripol. "Those bird-shaped remote drones should help."

"We can't use them," Renaril protested. "I told you – "

"I remember," the Chinese woman said brusquely. "You're afraid to use them because their secrecy is compromised and you don't want anyone to capture your sophisticated technology... But right now you risk having a lot more than that captured, don't you understand?"

"I know, but it's impossible anyway. This ship doesn't have any provision for launching them directly and Benacirael might notice if we ask someone else to do it."

Kang folded her arms. "How likely is that?"

"She may be watching even now," Eripol pointed out. "Somebody _was_ snooping on us yesterday."

"Then one of you can go down there and use your phase-shifting trick to observe directly, can't you? I know any reflective surface might blow your cover, but nobody could actually _hurt_ you, right?"

"That's no good either," Renaril answered glumly. "We'd still have to enlist help on the surface."

_"Arrrgh."_ The colonel took a long breath before speaking again. "Then all we have is orbital reconnaissance?"

"Afraid so," Eripol volunteered. "At least the clouds are gone."

"Get me the best imagery you can, and try calling Schuhart one more time." Kang looked around for a place to sit, found none and resorted to leaning against the aft bulkhead.

"Nothing," Eripol reported shortly. "I can't even make the connection – either he's out of range or he switched his transceiver off."

Kang made another exasperated face. _"Dammit."_

* * *

Richardson reached for another ammunition box, then stopped when she heard a distant booming. "What is that?"

"Eighty-eight," said Vyacheslav. "German gun – killed a lot of tanks in Great Patriotic War."

"Shore batteries," Sauer grunted, passing with another box in her arms. "The Arume must be attacking from the water."

Richardson shivered a little in spite of her resolve. "I hope they can't get through." As she finally picked up the box, the gosta heard lighter gunfire from over the hills ahead. _I hope they can't get through on the land either,_ she added mentally. "Uncle Vyacheslav, how much longer?"

"Not sure," the man confessed. "Carburetor is pretty well broke."

_"Honcho Gamma calling Two-Five-One."_ The tinny voice coming from the handset on Vyacheslav's harness was Daemon's. _"What's your status, over?"_

"Still fixing, over."

_"Can you hurry it up any? The people on the front need that PaK urgently, over."_

"I do what I can but it is hard without right tools, over."

_"Time is running out – we're about to engage here. Your position will be a fallback point if the forward company over there can't hold the tunnels, over."_

"Understood, over."

_"Godspeed, out."_

"What did that mean?" Harrington asked.

"It means," said Vyacheslav gravely, "we fight here if Arume capture tunnel."

* * *

"Your orbital optics are good, at least," Kang remarked. "What's the refresh rate on these, forty seconds?"

"Forty-one," Negadael answered. "I can increase the rate if you don't mind a resolution drop."

"This is enough, thank you... Far better than I had in the army."

"So far the first hovercraft attack has been repelled," Renaril summarized. "The blockade craft scattered when engaged, but those ships are moving very slowly... Why?"

"Sweeping for mines," said Kang. "It's the obvious thing to do... Move the focus inland again."

The group commander's stomach did a somersault. How could the colonel keep her composure so well? Unfair circumstances forced both of them to watch helplessly as events unfolded, the friend of one set against the comrades of the other, and it was wreaking havoc on Renaril's emotions while Kang kept on watching impassively. "I still don't understand," the Arume groaned. "What is Schuhart thinking?"

"In China we have what are called the thirty-six stratagems," Kang mused. "Schuhart has been particularly fond of the fourteenth and twenty-seventh for as long as I have known him."

Renaril reached for her PDA. Might as well look that up while she still had breathing space to do so.

* * *

The rolling thunder of the shore guns stopped after a little while, but the sounds of fighting over the hill did not. Terse bursts of speech came over the radio now and then, most of them unintelligible to the gosta. Vyacheslav kept working, occasionally climbing into the half-track's cab to test his progress... Until an especially frantic blast from the airwaves startled the Russian so much that he fell off his perch. Sitting up with a grimace, he hastily wiped his greasy hands on his fatigue pants and picked up his radio. There was an extraordinarily short exchange.

"Uncle Vyacheslav..?"

The man's whole demeanor had changed. "We are losing tunnels," he announced. "Ran out of rockets and now enemy is using gas – we are not set up for chemical war."

Richardson swallowed. "Are... Are they dead?"

"Not all," Vyacheslav grunted. "Survivors retreating now." Once upright, he headed for the rear of the half-track. "We must set up gun here, please help me!"

* * *

Kang squinted at the irregular blue-green shape on the primary display. "What is that?"

"The light carrier _Defiant Fragaria_," said Renaril flatly.

"That's a rather literal translation," Negadael pointed out. "I see what Benacirael is thinking – placing a carrier just inside her operations zone gives her air support we can't block."

The Chinese officer's mind was already at work. "Tell me about it."

"It's pretty new," Eripol supplied. "The design trades capacity for survivability. It's not fitted to support either heavy bombers or microlight scouters, but it can launch and recover up to twelve medium ground-attack craft." The image refreshed, a small blur streaking out from the seaward side of the carrier's curving hull. "See? It can deploy in several directions, but it normally keeps its shields up on the side towards the enemy and opens the hangars on the opposite face."

"What does it have for integral weapons?"

"Not much... Mostly what I think you call 'point defense' stuff."

"Then the destroyers can't damage it much, and vice versa." Kang glanced at Renaril. "Cheer up – that means fewer Arume casualties."

"Maybe," Eripol corrected. "The attack fliers are vulnerable, and they operate with three-body crews." The aide leaned forward in her seat. "Hey, I think Schuhart is calling."

Renaril finally stirred. "Answer it!"

"Right." Eripol hammered her keyboard. "It's done."

"Hello..?"

_"You train young women to drop exploding girls on people, but you won't let them paint the female nude on their spacecraft because it's 'obscene!'"_ The signal quality was very poor, but there was no mistaking the voice.

Renaril was trying to think of a reply when Kang interceded. "Schuhart, are you all right?"

_"Well – your sky-eyed friends and their sock puppets are gassing and burning my courageous employees, we're about to get strafed from above, my squad of grass-green volunteers has been reduced to all of three people including myself, and now I'm racing off to reinforce a unit in like shape. How about you, Colonel?"_

"Renaril smuggled me out of detention. We tried to contact you earlier, but you disappeared."

_"I had the batteries out of the phone for charging. Anyhow, you okay?"_

"I'm fine." Kang frowned. "Did you say something about gas?"

_"Yeah, it's a white misty stuff – catch one good whiff and you drop of a heart attack. We were holding the line pretty well until they started firing it at us. Ring any bells, Group Commander?"_

"Oh no," the Arume whispered. "Oh no, oh no, oh no..."

_"C'mon, start talking!"_

"Technically speaking it's a nanomachine aerosol," Renaril explained hesitantly. "It attacks the heart, like you say... It was – I can't believe I'm telling you this – it was developed as an emergency weapon against uprisings and revolts. Deploying any other way requires authorization at the highest levels... To use it here is... Is..."

_"Is what Benacirael saw fit to do. Are there any antidotes? Countermeasures?"_

"I don't think any were ever developed," the group commander admitted. "The nanomachines degrade rapidly after release and we Arume are immune to their effects, so the creators saw no point in one... I'm sorry."

_"The hell you are... Find Benacirael, bust a cap in her ass and say she resisted arrest or something. I gotta go."_

Renaril could think of no Arumic word to adequately describe her feelings.

* * *

Only the Kettenkrad returned, spattered with blood and nicked by stray bullets. Those piled in the trailer had succumbed already, and the driver collapsed with chest pains not long after arriving. The subsequent plan of battle was a simple affair: Harrington would lurk among the trees by the side of the road and aim for individual soldiers, Sauer would spot targets and provide covering fire from the half-track, and Vyacheslav would operate the anti-tank gun with help from Richardson. The latter would have much preferred to remain at the sharpshooter's side, but the PaK – she still wanted to know what that actually meant – needed a loader. It had been determined that the Arume assault hovercraft were not particularly rugged, and that they could not use their main weapons in confined spaces. Vyacheslav therefore intended to knock them out as fast as possible when they emerged from the tunnels, denying them time to charge up and return fire.

It sounded good until the Russian admitted that he'd never fired the old cannon before.

* * *

Azanael had felt very detached from her old life these last few days. She wasn't sure if it was the tension of getting mixed up in something sinister once more, or just the sheer insanity of what went on aboard this huge vessel... Either way, the arrival of a video message from home actually surprised her for a change. She'd received them many times before, especially when her semi-civilian pilot job kept her far away and on the move almost constantly. This was the first to come since she'd returned to the navy, however, and she wasn't sure what to expect.

_"Hi."_ It was Akane, wearing a dress shirt with the uppermost buttons left undone. _"The others took Yuko-chan to see a play, so it's only me guarding the castle... Just like old times, huh? I hope you're doing okay over there, wherever 'there' is. You're getting enough sleep and eating right, aren't you?"_ The restauranteur ran a hand through her tousled hair. _"I guess it'll be a while before you can come home on leave, but I'd really like to have you around for more than just a day at a time... The bed here is too big for one person."_ There was an embarrassed laugh. _"That sounded kind of wrong, didn't it? Actually, an Arume proposed to me the day after you left. She's one of the regulars here – I don't think you know her... She's not a bad person, but you know how I feel about that kind of thing. If you have any fresh, uh, advice on politely turning down suitors, share it."_ Akane hastily stifled a yawn. _"Listen to me, telling you to get enough sleep when I'm not getting much myself... Probably not the only one, either. There are a lot of rumors going around about what's happening, of course. Most of them are plain ludicrous... Apart from that, not much has happened here. The others will probably send their own greetings before long. It'd be nice to get some back too, you know?"_ Akane offered a little wave. _"Take care of yourself."_

When the playback ended, Azanael set her laptop aside and lay back on her bunk. She probably _should_ send Akane a reply, but what would she put in it? She couldn't very well talk about what she was poking her nose into, could she?

_Dong!_

The pilot quickly sat up at the sound of her door chime. "Come in," she called, releasing the lock with a little wariness. The door hissed open to reveal Kataphel, the engineer with the apparent insider connection. "Oh..."

"Seiichi sends his regards." Kataphel quickly slipped in, tapping the closing button on the door's panel. "Sorry I was so abrupt with you before."

The allusion to Yoshimura piqued Azanael's interest. "Feel like talking now?"

"I still can't, sorry." The other Arume pulled out a data card and tossed it on the bed. "But we might be able to help each other. Right now I think you should take that to Elaqebil."

"What's..?"

"See for yourself – just don't tell anyone who gave it to you, all right? Tell them whatever you want, as long as they can't trace it back to me."

A brick of cold dread formed in Azanael's gut as she skimmed the card's contents. "When and where was this?"

"Early this morning," Kataphel replied, "in one of the Hong Kong displaced forime camps. Like I said, better make it a rush delivery."

Azanael nodded. "I understand..."

"Thanks." The door opened and suddenly Kataphel wasn't in the room. "I'll be in touch."

* * *

"Hovercraft with infantry, left tunnel!"

Vyacheslav sprang into action at Sauer's cry, rapidly spinning the two control wheels on the left side of the carriage. "Load!"

Richardson shuffled forwards with a shell in her arms, aligned it with the open breech and gave it a solid thrust forward. It disappeared into that mechanism's depths with a metallic _schoonk_, a large block automatically snapping into place behind it. Mindful of the gunner's earlier warning, the gosta scooted to the right and jammed her fingers into her ears. "Ready!"

_BANG!_

The cannon's barrel slammed back on its rails, spitting out the shell's empty case before recoiling. "Hit," Sauer reported as Richardson grabbed the next round. "Front-left corner, low." There was a ripping burst from her MG42 and a volley from Harrington.

_Schoonk!_ "...Ready!"

It took a few moments for the next spotter's report to be distributed. "Hovercraft, right tunnel!"

Richardson couldn't see much past the double-layer bullet shield mounted on the PaK's carriage, so she focused instead on Vyacheslav as he frantically brought the gun to bear and slapped the firing button. "...Reload!"

"Hit, high center... Infantry, both tunnels!" This time Sauer really opened up, making communication at a polite volume impossible.

Richardson picked up a third shell and shoved it. "READY!"

Vyacheslav didn't fire right away, and Sauer stopped shooting after a handful of seconds. "Changing barrels!" The announcement was tailed by an alarmed yelp as a few bullets pinged off the angled facets of the half-track's hull. "Infantry, left! Transport, right!"

The PaK's next blast caught Richardson with her ears uncovered. Shaking it off with difficulty, she reloaded the weapon and tried to focus on her training from the previous days. They'd all been taught to provide covering fire for an occupied machine gunner, but the submachine gun she'd been issued today didn't have the range or accuracy to get the job done. Casting about, the gosta realized that the Kettenkrad driver's orphaned rifle and bandoleer were still lying on the other side of Vyacheslav. "Uncle Vyacheslav," she shouted, pointing to them, "give me those!"

She could barely hear her own voice over the ringing in her ears, and the Russian's reply was an indistinct murmur. Still, she got what she wanted: a blunt-nosed bolt-action identical to Daemon's. Resting its fore-end on the upper lip of the steel bullet shield, she could see the enemy properly at last. The right fork in the road was mostly blocked now, thanks to the burning wrecks of the second hovercraft – a squat rectangular thing in blue and violet with the fat mouth of a plasma bombard in the middle of its wide snout – and the wheeled troop carrier behind it. The first hovercraft had gone wildly off course and plowed into a barrier where the tunnel roads joined, rendering it useless as well. One of its Arume crew was climbing out, perhaps hoping to get away before the inescapable hail of bullets resumed. Richardson held her breath, aimed for the middle of that slender body and ever so gently squeezed.

_Crack!_

The hapless Arume jerked in mid-step and tumbled to the hard tarmac. As she ducked back into cover and Sauer resumed her own role in the rear, Richardson took a fleeting moment to savor the thrill of first blood. Uncle Roland would be proud, she was certain.

Then the first little canister traced a long arc through the air, casting its nefarious white clouds upon the defenders.


	16. Unlimited Dieselpunk Works

_Part 15: Unlimited Dieselpunk Works_

The white cloud left a sour taste in Richardson's mouth. It visited worse on Vyacheslav, who was soon grimacing and wheezing even as he gamely stayed at his post. The gosta stayed with him, and the old cannon belched shells for another minute before the lone adult went bottoms-up. His last words were, as far as the sole witness could make out, "Blin, odin nash gotov..."

There wasn't time to mourn, or even to arrange the dead man in a way that seemed decent – Richardson could only drag the corpse aside and take Vyacheslav's place at the gun. The controls were mercifully simple: a wheel to raise and lower the barrel, a wheel to swing the barrel from side to side, and a button to fire. Everything else was automated. Peering through the slot in the sloping shield as the airborne poison dissipated, the gosta cranked until the sights were aligned with the relatively clear mouth of the left tunnel. Firing at the first glimpse of movement, she was rewarded with temporary total deafness and the sight of another personnel carrier streaking across the road with flames gushing from its nose.

Unfortunately there was a new hovercraft right behind the latest kill – and it was charging up to return fire by the time the anti-tank gun was reloaded. Richardson slammed her palm against the button without bothering to correct her aim. The shell ricocheted off the hovercraft's right flank, jolting the levitating machine just as it vomited a stream of searing violet energy into the air. The discharge landed somewhere behind the stranded half-track as Sauer doggedly did her best to keep more advancing troops at bay: she was yelling when Richardson looked back, but the words were indistinguishable. Panting, the de facto vehicle destroyer loaded a new shell and moved to the aiming wheels.

The hovercraft's crew had other plans: the attacker accelerated, scooting diagonally faster than Richardson could compensate. Next thing she knew, it was behind the immobile cannon entirely.

* * *

"Incoming message from Superintendent Elaqebil," Negadael announced. "It's got a 'highest priority' label... Appears to be one line – 'talk to me once you've looked at these' – and a set of picture files."

"Let me see," Renaril answered wearily, positive that nothing worse could come out of it. "Put it on the big screen."

"Yes, ma'am... Done."

Negadael and Eripol gasped. Kang swore in her own language. Renaril clapped her hands over her mouth before she could vomit. There was a long silence, ending when the Chinese woman advanced to Renaril's console and began flipping through the images. "I walked along that street," she whispered. "I saw those people." When the next picture appeared, she pointed at a huddled figure near the lower left corner. "Zoom in on that."

"Done," Negadael answered weakly. "That... Who..?"

"Metford Lee," Kang supplied. "The one who gave me Schuhart's number." She straightened. "Well, Group Commander? Do you have authority to take over now?"

"In theory, yes," Eripol cut in, her look of shock turning to one of anger. "In actuality, I don't think Benacirael will quietly step aside for _anything."_

"This is insane," Renaril mumbled, not listening. "All those forime, we were helping them... Eek!"

"Snap out of it," the colonel barked, thumping the headrest of the Arume's seat. "We must dispatch a relief crew, and this time make sure somebody _competent_ in charge of it... What department handles that duty?"

"Um... Ah..." It took a few moments for Renaril's tongue to come unstuck. "That's forime affairs, normally."

"So how about your friend? Can we rely on her?"

"Who else is there?" Renaril scooted forwards in her seat, typing briefly. "Come on, come on..." She relaxed a miniscule degree when the curvaceous cinemaphile's face appeared on her screen. "Oh, thank goodness."

_"What's your plan?"_ Elaqebil asked immediately, adopting English for Kang's benefit.

"Um, yes... If you can deal with the situation in the camps, we'll, er... handle Benacirael. Is that all right?"

The superintendent nodded. _"It's fine as long as you sign off on it, kid."_

"Then we'll get started," Kang interjected. "There isn't much time – focus on saving anyone still alive and preventing the destruction of evidence. Stop for nothing and nobody. The fighting in Kowloon may distract Benacirael's allies down there, but watch out for stray shots."

_"Will do."_ The Arume on the other end of the line cocked her head. _"I can see why Renaril likes you... Anyway, what do you intend?"_

"We have to remove Benacirael from the command structure," the colonel replied, "along with anyone who could promptly replace her... Ideally we'll then be able to recall her troops."

_"Why doesn't somebody pull out a forty-five,"_ Elaqebil quipped, _"and, bang, settle it?"_

"One cannot interrogate a corpse," Kang pointed out. "Enough chatter. Keep us updated as much as you can."

_"I will. Take care of yourselves."_ The communication ended, leaving the primary display blank until Eripol reverted it to the satellite imagery.

"Right," the Chinese officer sighed. "Now we just need to move in on the enemy control center."

"Just a moment," Eripol countered. "Let's make sure... Too late." The aide frowned at her terminal. "Benacirael's not aboard... Looks as if she took a shuttle down to the _Fragaria_ about eight cycles ago."

"Straight out of our reach." Kang massaged her forehead. "Should have checked sooner."

* * *

"Now... Are we all comfortable?" The Arume captain looked around, gloved hands on bare hips and a cold, sadistic leer tugging at her lips. Her eyes were hidden behind a large visor. "We have a lot to talk about."

Richardson wanted to attack, to sink her fingers into that soft throat, but all she could muster was a hateful gaze. Her limbs were heavy and unresponsive, the point of the tiny dart's impact on her shoulder a stinging point she couldn't assuage. She might as well have been glued to the PaK's trailer. Sauer and Harrington were in the same condition, propped against the half-track's treads until it was their turn. The Arume had come equipped to deal with them, Richardson realized bitterly.

"You killed my best friend back there, do you realize?" The captain motioned towards the disabled hovercraft at which the gosta had fired her single shot. "I'm not going to let you off easy, _disposable."_

"Feh..." Sauer bared her own teeth. "If you... hurt us... Uncle Roland will definitely..."

"Definitely what?" The Arume picked up Richardson's third-hand Indian rifle and pointed it at nothing in particular. "He's a one-eyed cripple." She took a few seconds to take in the ongoing noises of gunfire, explosions and plasma venting to the south. "He might already be a _dead_ one-eyed cripple."

"He will definitely come," the gosta pronounced defiantly. "Just wait." Richardson wanted to agree, but her private doubts would not sit idle. She hadn't thought to use Vyacheslav's radio when she had a chance – would Uncle Roland even know they were in trouble?

"Bah." The enemy woman wrinkled her nose. "And what do you expect to get if he does? _Freedom?"_ She started to say something more, but stopped as a signal from her communications headset distracted her. "I'm coming," she snapped after a moment. "Tell Hyman to press on with the advance – I'll catch up as soon as I finish here... Of _course_ they're desperate! We've almost pushed them back to the shore!" The Arume dropped the weapon and waved to a forime subordinate, one of the rearguard soldiers still in the vicinity. "I see... Yes, yes, I got it." Raising a hand, she changed channels. "Number Two, we're moving out... It'll have to wait. Bring over the command platform."

Turning her head – a remarkable achievement in her drugged condition – Richardson saw a hovercraft sporting a large number of antennae, weaving between the remains of the vehicles she'd helped destroy with a personnel carrier following and a large escort of foot soldiers flanking. It stopped almost in front of the anti-tank gun, a second Arume appearing out of a side hatch. There was a brief exchange between her and the captain, in which a small case changed hands, and then an exchange between the captain and the man she'd flagged, in which the case changed hands again. Richardson couldn't make out their words, but she didn't like the way the captain pointed at her before climbing into the hovercraft.

"Yay me," the appointed soldier grumbled as he strode towards the helpless gosta. "I swear I'm either gonna be a Section Eight or a friggin' _pedo_ by the time this tour's over..." Squatting in front of the girl, he set the case on the ground and opened it, revealing a row of compact syringes. "Fuck," he grunted, "there's no instructions... Hey! Is it the blue one, or the _dark_ blue one?"

The captain's head appeared through the open hatch. "The indigo one!"

"Oh... Guess that's dark blue." The trooper reached into the case, fumbling among the little tubes. As he was doing so, however, dramatic music suddenly began to play from somewhere across the road.

It was accompanied by a very serious voice: _"In 1972 a crack commando unit..."_

"What the hell?" Abandoning the case, the soldier grabbed his rifle and took cover behind the PaK's breech.

_"...Promptly escaped from a maximum security stockade..."_

"Check it!" The Arume captain waved from her nest in the hovercraft, spurring the other forime forwards. "Go, go!"

_"...Today, still wanted by the government..."_ Soldiers came running from all over the road, heading for the source of the interruption. Richardson dearly wished to know what it was, and apparently so did everyone else. She turned her eyes to her siblings but found no answers there. _"...If you have a problem, if no one else can help, and if you can find them, maybe you can hire – "_

The rest was blotted out by a cascade of machine gun fire, followed by the roar of an engine and a swell in the musical accompaniment. In the next instant the surprised gosta saw a gray van rocket up the right-hand exit ramp from the perpendicular road to the south. It zoomed towards the tunnels, weaving between smoldering wrecks as its occupants' shots raked the exposed soldiers, then came to a screeching halt in the distance. The rear doors flew open, revealing four figures inside. Two leaped out and quickly zipped away to the edges of the pavement, as if above the mundane constraints of friction, while the second pair unloaded a tubular device – the 'Carl G' used by Schuhart's friends on the day of their first meeting with the gosta.

The soldier next to Richardson ducked. "Oh sh – "

The personnel carrier blew up, showering the man's fellow troops with bits of smoking debris as they regrouped around the top of the exit ramp. The attackers dropped and flattened themselves against the road as the soldiers, steadily moving forward, began to return fire. So did the one behind the PaK, aiming over the top of its bullet shield like Richardson herself had done, until the hovercraft began to move and blocked his line of sight. Then there was a sharp explosion on the far side of the freshest wreck and the number of enemy sound signatures dropped dramatically.

A feeling of heated emotion surged through the girl's slender body. Obviously this was Uncle Roland's rescue mission: she had to do something, _anything_ to help! Casting about, she remembered that the cannon was still loaded – a fact lost to her enemies. The knowledge that help was close by gave her strength, helping Richardson fight the effects of the paralyzing drug. Making a clumsy attempt at subtlety, she leaned towards the front of the elderly gun and focused all her will into moving her left arm. She couldn't wield a regular weapon in this state, but finesse offered no bonuses at point-blank range with such firepower in her reach. _Come on... Come on... Almost there..._

The soldier pulled the magazine out of his weapon and jammed a full one into it before noticing what the erstwhile prisoner was up to. "Hey, what're you – "

Richardson gave him a look of hateful triumph and _pushed._ The recoiling cannon struck the man right in the sternum, catapulting him backwards. The captain's hovercraft dropped as if it had been suspended by invisible cables only to have them suddenly severed, crashing to the ground with a jagged hole in its frame. Her view of the road cut off by the machine's bulk, the gosta had to settle for an ears-only observation of the fight. There was shooting from several directions now, as if both sides had scattered in the interval since she began to move, and that bouncy music was still playing in the background.

"Place looks loike Brisvegas aff'er the big flood!" Suddenly the girls had company: a fair-skinned man with a maniacal grin and khaki shorts, carrying a skateboard and a large revolver. "Yer okay, little sheilas?"

Richardson couldn't understand half of what he said, but she surmised that he meant herself and her fellows. "Yes..."

"Roight." A bullet pinged off the PaK's trailer strut, heralding a renewed counterattack from the south. The man unlimbered a rifle with a heavily gouged stock and a large ring protruding from the back of its mechanism, returning fire with glee. "Come on, yah slappahs!"

The gosta needed another second to appreciate her own vulnerability. She was no master of the science of statistics, but it seemed reasonable to expect that, should she remain where she was, she would certainly become a casualty sooner or later. Worse, the burst of strength which empowered her in her moment of vengeance was dissolute and feeble now.

The cheerful stranger seemed not to notice: "G'day!" _Bang!_ "G'bye!" _Bang!_ "Smoile an' wait fer the flash, yah whackah!" _Bang!_ "Bottlecapped!" _Bang!_ "Oy, Errol! Back me up 'ere!" _Bang!_

"Comin', comin'..." The entourage were joined by a second man: identical to the first down to the revolver and the khakis, but with a capital 'H' prominently tattooed on his forehead. He carried a thing like a stubby shotgun with a ludicrously wide barrel and wore a bandoleer of fat cartridges over his shirt. "Where d'yah want it?"

_Bang!_ "Straight ahead an' dead even, thanks." _Bang!_

"Okay." The second twin dropped onto one knee, aimed into the air and pumped. Richardson turned her head the other way, deciding no help would come from this quarter. She thought she could hear boots on tarmac close by, but who was it?

"Phil! Errol!" Keiko's shout was followed by a long burst of automatic fire. "Watch your damn flanks!" The gosta's heart soared as that giantess appeared on the far side of the PaK, shooting up and down the descending side ramp. Ending the fusillade with a tossed grenade, she sprinted across to the cannon. "Richardson, are you all right?"

The girl couldn't see her savior's eyes through those mirror sunglasses, but all of that powerful body radiated a comforting energy. "Yes, but I... can't move."

"Hang on." Tossing the machine gun onto the terminally impacted soldier's stomach as if it were a featherweight toy, Keiko ran around to the command hovercraft's unsecured side hatch and threw something into it. "There," she proclaimed as a terrified yelp and a piercing blast came from within, "that should settle _them."_ The remark earned a wan smile from Richardson as the appointed pack leader took a green syringe from the forgotten case and bent over her. "This will make you hyper for a while," Keiko warned, "but it's the fastest way to get you moving."

Richardson wanted to ask how she knew that, but could only gasp as the injection began to circulate through her own veins. Keiko was gone already, moving to administer the same to Sauer and Harrington even while bullets whizzed overhead.

* * *

"You're back." Renaril couldn't keep the relief out of her voice as Kang and Eripol entered the command room, arms laden with equipment. "What did you get?"

"We seized everything that might be relevant," Kang reported crisply, "and turned the remaining staff over to internal security. What's happening on the ground?"

"Uh, yes." The group commander reverted the main display to orbital view. "Schuhart's ships have sustained heavy damage, but they're still fighting. The transport is at the docks... Benacirael's forces broke through at the, um, the Lion Rock tunnels, but it looks like some kind of counterattack is happening there. There's a large contingent of her forces inside the destroyed city – they must intend to stop the evacuation."

The colonel raised an eyebrow as the image refreshed. "That doesn't look like an evacuation to me."

"Eh?" Renaril frantically zoomed in. "Eh? _Eh?"_

"That," Kang went on, "looks more like an invasion." Setting her spoils in the corner, she moved towards the screen. "They're landing T-Fifty-Fives."

The top-rank Arume among the group watched in horrified fascination as the image updated once more, revealing a line of drab green tanks rolling off the ship's bow ramp. "Are those... good?"

"Old," the soldier answered, "but light and relatively compact. They have NBC protection."

"NBC..?"

"The lethal nanomachines will probably not affect them." Kang looked to Negadael. "There's been no contact with Schuhart?"

"No, ma'am. Shall I try again?"

"Please."

"I'll do it," Eripol offered, sliding into her own chair. "Okay... Yeah, good... I've got a signal, routing it through."

"Let me handle this," Kang said to Renaril in an undertone. "Schuhart..?"

_"I could have saved fifteen percent on my vehicle insurance by switching over to Geico,"_ the arms dealer lamented. His voice was quite loud, and the ambient noise level suggested proximity to a firefight. _"What is it, Colonel?"_

"Do you know what happened in the Yuen Long district this morning?"

_"Some kind of trouble with the DPs. I don't have details."_

The colonel took a deep breath. "It seems cordon troops fired on the civilians. There are hundreds, maybe thousands of casualties. We don't know how it started."

_"Well, shit."_ A grenade detonated somewhere not far away. _"How about Benacirael?"_

"We've applied for a revocation of command, but getting approval is a slow process... She's moved her base to the carrier on the water, so we can't just, er, bust any caps."

_"She's offshore, huh? And if she's taken out, command reverts to your nice friend up there, is that it?"_

"Yes," Renaril confirmed. "Yes, it does."

_"'Scuse me for a moment."_ The man's voice faded a little, as if he were speaking at a distance, and affected an accent other than his usual. _"Comrade Vinogradov, launsh the MacGuffinsh... Right, anything else from on high?"_

Kang and Renaril exchanged a look of worry. "Not right now," the former replied, "but try to stay in contact."

_"No promises... Later, ladies."_

Renaril blinked. "He didn't... seem very serious."

Kang shook her head. "He was very serious... It's when he stops joking that you should worry about – Negadael, what's the matter?"

"I'm not sure," the aide said. "There's a lot of traffic suddenly – wait..."

"I've got it," Eripol chimed in. "Somebody fired a missile at the _Fragaria_."

"From where?" Renaril demanded. "Show me."

"The launch point is in the ocean due south of the carrier's position." The satellite view shifted accordingly, revealing little of help.

"It's got to be that mystery submarine," Renaril deduced. "But how did it get so close without being detected?"

"Sloppy reconnaissance," her Chinese adviser opined critically. "More importantly, how does Schuhart think one missile will get through – "

"Group Commander," Eripol yelled, the short distance between herself and her superior momentarily forgotten, "the _Fragaria_ just went off the grid!"

"What!?"

"Uplink, transponder, flight blinkers, _everything._ It's dead in the water."

"Isn't that..." The group commander's voice trailed off briefly as the image on the main screen refreshed. The _Defiant Fragaria_ was still there, albeit half submerged and listing. The water around it looked violently agitated. "...Impossible?"

"I don't know what it was," Eripol continued shakily. "Data from remote sensors is still being tabulated."

"I know," said Kang grimly. "It was a nuclear depth charge." She leaned over Negadael. "Call him again."

"Yes, Colonel... It's done."

"Schuhart, are you mad?"

_"You already know it,"_ the man replied flatly. _"I got Benacirael out of the way for you, so hurry up on your end."_

The look on Kang's face made Renaril want to hide under her console. "Did you think even for one _second_ about the consequences? _Did_ you?"

_"If you called just to bitch at me for being practical, Kang Li, then the best thing you can do right now is to take that idiot GC someplace quiet, fuck her silly and leave the war effort to those of us with more than a moribund career at stake."_

"...I can't believe you just said that."

_"I can't either. Unfortunately my best lieutenant was just brought in with three fingers and a foot missing, so I have to go rally the lads."_ With that the arms dealer rang off, leaving Kang in a daze.

"This has gone far enough." Feeling all too alert for a change, Renaril scooted forwards in her seat and began typing. "The fighting has to stop, that's the first priority..." After taking a few moments to compose herself, the group commander began to speak. "Attention, all Arume and allied forces in the Hong Kong operations zone: this is Group Commander Renaril. As Group Commander Benacirael is missing in action, I am assuming command of operations. All units, cease fire immediately and withdraw to your starting positions. Evacuate casualties as best you can. That is all."

"Finally," Eripol sighed. "Let's just hope they heed it."

"I know." Rising, Renaril placed a hand on Kang's shoulder. "Come on," she said softly. "The wounded and the stranded need us now. The rest can wait."

"Yes..." The colonel nodded, her own voice just above a whisper. "Yes, that's right."

* * *

"About damn time," Keiko announced. "They've called a ceasefire. All the sky eyes are pulling out."

"Buggah," the first of the strangely upbeat newcomers – Phil, his name apparently was – complained. "Wos 'avin' so much fun, too."

"Playtime's over, big boy. We need to clear the road and collect any wounded." Keiko peered at the underpass just to the south, which had collapsed after taking one explosion too many. "Somebody's gonna have to go down there and direct traffic, too."

"What should we do?" Harrington asked.

"Just a minute." Keiko looked around the area, then went over to the pair of Arume she'd hauled out of the command hovercraft. "I suppose you little fish get tossed back," the big woman said, producing a long knife and severing the cords which bound their wrists. "But pull any shit and I _will_ fuck you up, understand?"

"We'll behave," the captain muttered, rubbing her arms. Richardson didn't doubt that the black eye and cut lip she'd gotten for pulling a pistol on Keiko earlier contributed to her compliance.

"Good girl. Let's see... We don't have anything capable of heavy lifting, so it looks like we'll be hauling bodies for the most part... Ruslan!"

The Russian with the tubular weapon came running. "Here!"

"You're in charge of the cleanup. I'm gonna take the kids and these two losers into town – be back as soon as I find somebody who can fix the Two-Fifty-One."

Ruslan nodded. "Got it."

"Also, make sure the Darwins – " Keiko waved to Phil and Errol, his tattooed twin. " – don't get too crazy."

"Da, da, I'll handle it."

"I'm counting on you... And you two better listen to him, or Cousin Roland won't be handing you any Vegemite sandwiches."

"Cousin," Phil repeated, squinting. "Yer really family?"

"No," said Keiko evenly, "I'm really a time-traveling clone of Roland grown by the Arume as a prototype organic Terminator." Turning on her heel, the giantess headed for the van. "C'mon, girls, let's go!"

Richardson rotated the bolt handle on her never-fired MP40 into its safety slot and ran after the pack leader, Sauer and Harrington close behind. Was it, she wondered, really over so fast?

The captured Arume followed grudgingly as Keiko opened the vehicle's back doors. "Hanomag wheels and a Maybach engine," she remarked, looking back at the half-track, "and it still takes just one little breakage to stop the whole thing." The captain looked as if she wanted to say something clever about that, but kept her mouth shut. There being no seats in the van except for two at the front, she sat with her back against the side. Her comrade sat opposite her, while Sauer claimed the passenger seat and the other gosta established themselves at the rear.

Nobody spoke as the van navigated twisting roads littered with debris. It dawned on Richardson that her first experience of battle had been a mild one: the dead lay where they had fallen, dozens of them flashing by. Gradually the dead were joined by the living: Arume and forime soldiers alike walking in the opposite direction with bowed heads and slack shoulders. Many of the men had lost or removed their helmets and masks, revealing tired, empty faces. Rifles, some without magazines, dangled from numb hands. It didn't make sense to the gosta – as far as she understood, the enemy had been ordered by their own leaders to pull back in the middle of their advance. Why did they look so battered, so _relieved_ to be getting away from the fight?

"We're here," Keiko announced tersely, cutting the engine after several minutes. "Everybody out... Follow me," she ordered once disembarkation was done, "and do me a favor – don't puke." After slamming her door shut and pocketing the keys, she led the way down a side street and into a marginally less pulverized area full of people.

Richardson immediately wished the warning were more specific. All she could do was stare straight ahead and keep her mouth tightly shut as she followed Keiko through the middle of an open-air triage center. The unwilling glimpses she caught were the stuff of nightmares, as Arume and collaborators desperately worked side-by-side with friendly forces to help wounded from both sides. The injuries suffered by the enemy soldiers tended to be especially severe.

"Please," the captain moaned behind her, "I can't take this..."

"Shut up." Keiko sidestepped to intercept a passing man. "Yadugin, where's Schuhart?"

He pointed to the far end of the ward. "Straight ahead and right."

"And the opfor CO?"

"Same place."

"Thanks."

And on they went. The grip of Richardson's submachine gun was slick with sweat by the time the six put the triage behind them and emerged back onto a wider street, whereupon Keiko departed in search of a mechanic. A line of hovercrafts, most of them damaged, were moving down the centerline of the pavement, escorted by squat tanks with long, jutting cannon barrels. A single tank sat on the near side of the street, Schuhart and an Arume with a large cap standing by its side. The former finished conferring with the bearded, turbaned man sitting in the turret's commander hatch as the others drew near, and the wide machine rumbled away to join the flock.

"Uncle Roland!" the gosta called impulsively. "Uncle Roland, are..." Her voice failed her as the arms dealer turned. His clothes were torn, scorched and covered in dust, his helmet had four new holes in it, and the right lens of the goggles resting against that steel dome had been shattered. Empty Thompson magazines poked out of his vest pockets and the butt of the Mosin carbine in his hand was stained with dried blood. "Are the others all right?" the girl finished solemnly. "Are we all – I mean..."

"We didn't loose any of your sisters," Schuhart replied flatly. "How do you feel?"

"We're fine," Sauer volunteered. "How can we help?"

"In about eight minutes the first helicopter will arrive with a load of cold, wet sky eyes freshly fished out of the South China Sea. Think you're up to handing out some towels?"

"Yes," Harrington answered positively. "We are."

"Wait!" Richardson pushed forward, gripping her weapon tightly. "Uncle Roland, why do you want us to _help_ the enemy?"

"The 'enemy' have been asking me the same thing," said Schuhart, unfazed by the outburst. "Let me tell you all a little story..."


	17. Why I Push Forwards

_Part 16: Why I Push Forwards_

"Haah... Haah... Haah..."

Richardson's breathing was fast and shallow, air hissing past her teeth as her heart's pounding filled her ears. The MP40's barrel was too hot to touch, its supply of ammunition more than half exhausted. It was all the gosta could do to keep up with Schuhart as he shuffled along a sidewalk thickly cluttered with corpses, abandoned cars and the tattered remains of dozens of tents.

A bolt of bright purple energy hissed past the arms dealer, melting a new hole in a tent already on the verge of tearing to bits. Looking ahead, Richardson saw an Arume in a black bodysuit with matching gloves, hip boots and sunglasses emerge from behind a truck. In the next instant the girl's employer whipped up his own weapon and delivered a burst which raked the woman from waist to throat. She fell, limbs going slack as her clumsy pulse rifle clattered against the ground. Schuhart threw a quick glance behind himself as he resumed his advance, smoke wafting from his rifle's flash hider. "Who's a one-eyed cripple _now,_ maggot?"

Captain Isobael said nothing. She was busy trying to keep a grip on her own pulse gun, moving in a permanent half-crouch in hopes of offsetting the visibility of her white uniform. The look on her face spoke loudly enough: _What in the name of the first mother am I doing here!?_

"One o'clock!" _Popopopopopopoomph!_

Schuhart hustled towards the truck, reloading on the go. Isobael ran after him, ineffectually firing from the hip at the enemies across the street while Richardson and the others dropped to the sidewalk. The gosta performed a belly crawl until she was situated behind the cold body of a middle-aged man, lying facedown with three charred holes in his back.

_Pewpewpewpewpew!_

_Pah-pah-pah-pah-pah-pah!_

_Boomph! ...Boomph!_

"Never fails," the scarred cyclops grunted. "The villain _always_ keeps his diehard elite mooks in reserve until everyone else is used up." _Popopoomph! Popopopopoomph! Popopoomph!_

Richardson still didn't fully understand what Uncle Roland's educational narrative had to do with anything, or why she was expected to pretend that these people hadn't been trying to kill her a half-day ago, or even why she'd felt so sympathetic when she watched a frail Arume fall onto her hands and knees, seasickness with a dash of radiation poisoning forcing her to violently retch even after her stomach was emptied. What Richardson clearly understood was that right now it was imperative for her to do her utmost to make sure everyone got to the rally point alive.

"Clear up!"

"...Clear down!"

Schuhart waved. "Keep moving!"

Leather and nylon straps dug into the girl's shoulders as she scrambled back onto her feet, fumbling with the submachine gun's magazine catch. _Reload whenever you get a quiet stretch,_ Uncle Roland had said during training. _Being caught half-empty can get you killed almost as easy as being caught all-empty._ The rifle on her back and the pistol on her hip hung heavy as she caught up with her benefactor and his unbelievable ally. On her tail were Sauer, newly issued a .30 caliber Browning machine gun, and then a procession of ammunition bearers.

At least they hadn't lost anyone yet. So far, so good.

* * *

_Hours earlier._

"...And that's the 1914 Christmas Truce in a nutshell." Schuhart eyed his audience expectantly. "Any questions?"

The Arume commander cleared her throat warily. "I'm not sure I see the relevance."

"Just think about it," said the arms dealer casually. "But hark! I hear a helicopter."

Just as he said, there was a faint _whupwhupwhup_ audible in the distance. Sauer took advantage of the remaining time to pose a question: "Uncle Roland, what happened to you?"

Schuhart shrugged. "I dove into a crater that turned out to be already occupied."

"And the en – the other person?"

"Back there somewhere." The man replied, waving towards the triage area. "He's probably waiting to find out whether superior sky eye medicine can save his incisors... That reminds me, I should introduce you. Girls, this is Commander Spiegel. Commander, these are Richardson, Sauer and Harrington." He looked to the freshly arrived Arume. "And you two..?"

"Isobael," answered the bruised one stiffly. "Captain, First Subset, Fourth Section, Second Fleet Land Operations Battalion."

"Ferenil," the second added quickly. "Mobile platform operator, same unit."

"Right, now we all know – oops." Schuhart stopped to unclip his shrilly ringing satellite phone. "I gotta get one with a better vibrate mode... Ja, hallo?"

* * *

Renaril briefly wondered if she'd gotten the wrong number. "Uh... Schuhart, is that you?"

_"Ja. Was willst du?"_

The alien officer took a guess at his meaning and pushed onward. "I was wondering if... I mean..." _Come on, get it together!_ "Would you let us evacuate our casualties by air? I know your own wounded need attention, so it's better if I don't burden you with ours, isn't it? I'll only send unarmed transports, of course."

_"Jawohl, Gruppenkommandant."_

"I – I'm sorry, I can't understand that."

_"I'm probably doing it wrong anyway. Unarmed transports are fine, anything else?"_

"Nothing here," Renaril replied. "I should warn you that Colonel Kang has gone to join the first flight down... I think she's very upset about what you said."

_"Thanks for the warning. Any progress in Yuen Long?"_

"I haven't heard anything," the Arume admitted. "Let me get an update and I'll call you back, all right?"

_"Good thing I opted for the premium service plan,"_ the arms dealer remarked dryly. _"Oh, got anything more to say to Spiegel before I go? She's right here."_

"Not now. Maybe when I call again."

* * *

"Nun, auf Wiedersehen." Schuhart disconnected, directing the others with his free hand. "They're gonna land right in the street here," he barked, raising his voice as the din of rotors threatened to swamp him. "Everyone get ready!"

Turning around, Richardson found that a mixed group from the triage space had arrived to help. In the next moment a powerful downdraft struck and then all she could hear was the endless _WHUPWHUPWHUP_ over her head. Craning her neck, she saw the aerial machine descend: a fat-bodied thing – covered in mottled green and brown paint above, white below – with a long tail boom extending from high in the rear. It settled onto its tricycle undercarriage with unexpected grace, side doors sliding open as the other onlookers surged forward. The gosta followed them, their white hair vigorously mussed by the mechanical wind.

* * *

"The _Fragaria_ must be at the bottom by now," Renaril observed glumly. "How did it sink so fast?"

"Assuming no critical design flaws turn up," Eripol speculated, "my guess is that its damage containment structures were overwhelmed by stress cracks from the bomb's pressure wave. Thousands of little ruptures letting water in everywhere... We're lucky so many survived despite that."

"Yes..." Renaril watched the orbital image feed update, revealing one of Schuhart's helicopters skimming over the water. It was a Russian Mi-8, according to Kang: able to rescue two dozen Arume in one run and go back for more in mere minutes. That news offered the glimmer of hope which the group commander desperately needed.

* * *

"Broken leg? We can fix that." Schuhart scooped an Arume up in his arms and marched towards the triage center, encountering Richardson heading the other way. "This one's the last for now," he called. "Stick with me." The gosta followed him, marveling at the great discrepancy in size between the man and his passenger. Her enemy looked so helpless, so _childish_ even, clinging to Uncle Roland's vest with eyes shut and teeth clenched. "Almost there," he assured her. "Just hang on – the airlift will be here any minute."

Richardson waited until Schuhart had set the Arume down on top of a disused crate and caught the eye of a passing medic. "Uncle Roland, you said none of... none of _us_ were lost, but what about the others?"

"Nereus and Daemon came through with cuts and bruises. Woodpecker has effectively lost a leg from the knee down, plus some fingers. Karan got a five-fifty-six through the arm, but he'll be okay... It's Camilla who _won't_ be."

"What happened?"

"She got cornered by a grunt with a flamethrower – burns all down her left side, and her arm will have to be amputated at the shoulder if she does survive." Schuhart's expression tightened. "The guy was laughing when he lit her up."

"Ugh!"

"Doesn't look like he's laughing now, though." The scar-faced one pointed to a soldier near the middle of the triage. Richardson must have walked right past him earlier without noticing: his bloody hands were pressed over his middle, trying to keep his entrails from spilling out of the long gash in his belly. "KK got to him first."

The gosta shivered at the spectacle. "Oh..."

"Come on." Her 'uncle' turned his back on the patient. "We're just getting in the way here." He began to walk back towards the open street, his student numbly trailing. "Let's go help the sky eyes up on hiiiiiiigh... It's myyyyy occupation: let's not think too much about moralityyyyy... I'm just a bad guyyyyyyy... Yes, everybody knows I'm just a bad guyyyyyyy..."

"Uncle Roland," said Richardson awkwardly, "isn't it wrong to sing at a time like this?"

"Anything to take their minds off the painkiller shortage... A certain junta's got no cash to payyyyy... Small banana nation: how shall we – "

"Roland!" Heads turned as Keiko jogged up the street. "Roland, we have a problem!"

"Fascinating," the arms dealer replied sardonically. "Please do elaborate."

"Knock it off," the giantess snapped. After a worried glance at Richardson, she leaned in and whispered in Schuhart's ear.

His demeanor changed in an instant. "You gotta be _kidding_ me... Okay, take over here. I'll handle the cleanup."

Richardson gave Keiko a puzzled look as Schuhart strode away. "What happened?"

"Don't worry about it," Keiko said curtly. "Here comes the first airlift. Ready to rock?"

The gosta hadn't even noticed the Arume craft approach, so silent was its flight compared to the bumbling intrusion of the helicopters before. It settled on the same part of the street which the forime machines had occupied, deploying a ramp from its tail. The first Arume to disembark wore the same style of boots, gloves and visor as Isobael: upon spotting Keiko, she saluted stiffly. "We're here for the sick and the wounded."

The tall woman nodded. "Back there," she said, waving behind her. "Anything you need, just ask."

"...Thank you." Signaling the procession which had assembled behind her, the alien officer marched across the street. Keiko looked set to follow along when a forime woman came down the ramp. Though Richardson had never seen her before, the girl instinctively knew by the clothes and bearing that this must be Kang Li.

"Where is he?" she demanded.

Schuhart's cousin shrugged. "If you're looking for Roland, you just missed him."

Kang stalked towards her, teeth bared. "Where is he!?"

"Easy, sister." Keiko folded her arms. "I think you'd better take a deep breath and – "

"WHERE IS HE!?" Richardson reflexively covered her head at the unexpected shout. When she reopened her eyes, Kang and Keiko had come to blows.

The feeling of mesmerizing horror came back to her as she watched them battle. She better understood now why Uncle Roland spoke of Kang with such respect: the soldier was fast and agile, deflecting her opponent's punches and kicks or evading them entirely. It was obvious, however, that Keiko had earned his trust no less than her rival, as she intercepted Kang's own attacks with almost no effort. When Kang did finally land a glancing hit, Keiko simply shook it off and kept going.

After a few seconds, Kang upped the ante with a rapid volley of strikes. Keiko danced just out of her reach, then tensed and catapulted herself into a twisting leap. Powerful bodies clashed again: when they parted, the buttons on Kang's shirt had been torn away. One side of the garment hung off her shoulder as she and Keiko circled, each searching for a fresh opening. Pressing her advantage, Keiko struck hard. Kang fell, only to somersault back onto her feet. The rest of the world seemed to stand still as their fight rushed on, two fierce woman striking, blocking, charging, dodging –

_SKREEEEEEEEEEEEEE..!_

The combatants broke apart, withdrawing in a flash as the broad side of a pale blue pickup truck plowed through their sparring ground. "What..?" Kang gasped. _"You!"_

Schuhart leaned out of the driver-side window. "Here," he grunted, extending a hand. "Have a safety pin." While Kang did her best to put the front of her shirt back together, he opened the door, swung his legs out and started to put his brace on. "Got something you need to see," the man added grimly. "In the back."

Renewal of curiosity prodded Richardson forwards. What had Uncle Roland brought? Had they gotten Benacirael? As she came closer, Kang leaned over the truck's rear bed and pulled back the tarpaulin which covered its load. The gosta heard an exclamation in a foreign tongue. "...How did this happen?"

"The local volunteers," Schuhart replied flatly, walking around to the back. "We organized them into ten-man sections, each led by one of our own people. Averkin got hit early on, and his section panicked and ran. Losing him was bad enough, but they... they stumbled across the wreck of one of those fliers from the carrier. The crew probably thought they'd be safe if they surrendered immediately." There was a dull bang as the tailgate fell open. "I guess the deserters were feeling vengeful."

Grasping the top of the truck's sideboard, Richardson boosted herself up for a good look. There were three Arume lying on the cargo bed: all naked, with their wrists tied behind their backs. The crude nooses of steel cable still tight around their necks and the agonized expressions frozen on their faces made it plain that their deaths were neither quick nor merciful. Beside them was a loose pile of Mosin-Nagants and ammunition pouches, presumably confiscated from the perpetrators.

The girl was trying to think of something to say when Kang spoke again: "Did you inform Renaril?"

"Haven't had a chance yet," Schuhart admitted, taking out his satphone. "I'll do it now, unless you think I shouldn't."

"No, go ahead."

"Okay." The arms dealer dialed the number and put the handset to his ear. "Group Commander, it's me again. You're not going to like this..."

* * *

"...I see," Renaril sighed once Schuhart had finished. "Thank you for telling me."

_"Not much else I can do right now. We'll turn the bodies over to Spiegel, of course."_

"That would be good. What will you do about the offenders?"

_"Don't know yet. You want 'em for murdering those Arume and Kang probably wants 'em because they're Chinese citizens... I wouldn't mind thrashing 'em myself, either."_

"Why?"

_"Unlikely as it may appear, we are in fact professionals. We have rules of engagement and standards of behavior, and all the volunteers agreed to abide by them when they signed up. I don't like people who do these things and think they can hide behind me."_

"I understand," said Renaril, hoping she really did. "As for our position on the deserters... I think it would be best if you settled that as quickly as possible."

_"I'll talk to the good colonel, then. There's been no sign of Benacirael yet, so that's all from me."_

"Ah." The Arume took a few deep breaths. "Regrettably, I too must tell you something you will not like..."

* * *

In all honesty, Kang had expected much worse than this. Hopefully the lynching would prove to be an isolated failure of discipline, but she'd have to wait until Schuhart got off the phone before she could ask. Since he didn't seem to be reaching the end of his conversation, the colonel drew the tarp back over the corpses and headed for the triage center.

"Yo." It was the large woman in fatigues whom she'd been fighting just minutes ago, walking in the opposite direction with a wounded man on each arm. "We need all the help we can get here."

"Ah... Yes." Seeing a third man doing his best to support a fourth as they staggered out of the alley, she closed in on them. "I'll take this one," she said to the beleaguered soldier, shifting the weight of his companion onto her own frame. "Can you make it on your own?"

"Yeah... I mean, yes, ma'am." He affected a salute with the arm that wasn't wrapped in bloody bandages.

"As you were." Kang escorted the patients up the ramp into the transport, following her rugged opponent.

They were met inside by a bossy Arume in a white smock and thick gloves. "All low-priority patients to the front," she ordered. "Hurry it up."

"Nice bedside manner, Doc." The giantess carried her wards to the end of the cabin and set them down. "Put yours here, Colonel... That's it, now for the next bunch."

"Yes," Kang agreed, returning to the exit. "By the way, you are..?"

"That's right, we haven't been introduced... I'm Keiko Kovalchuka, Roland's cousin. You could say I'm the XO in our outfit."

_I certainly picked a good person to start a fight with,_ Kang thought wryly. "I apologize for my behavior – "

"Nah," said Keiko casually. "You just needed to blow off steam. I had fun, too. We should do it again sometime."

Keiko resembled her relative in more than just looks, the colonel decided. If she was as good with a gun as she was with her fists –

"KK, Colonel, over here!" Schuhart was waving at them. "Renaril doesn't want to deal with the deserters right now," he went on once the women had joined him beside the truck. "But she _does_ want to know how fast we can organize a joint operation."

"Joint operation?" Kang repeated. "What do you mean?"

"I'll summarize." Schuhart cleared his throat. "The relief unit which Renaril sent to Yuen Long has been taken hostage by renegade elements of the Second Fleet's Ninth Shield Company and Third Loyalist Battalion... One's an Arume internal security unit and the other is a second-layer collaborator formation. Apparently both of them have more combat experience than the assault troops that were allocated to Spiegel. They also have Harold Hyman advising them. So far they're only demanding to speak to Benacirael, but that's probably a ploy to gain time. Bottom line is, the group commander wants this dealt with promptly and she's willing to pay us for our help."

"Hyman, huh?" Keiko cocked her head. "Did you tell her we've run into him before?"

"I mentioned it," Schuhart answered. "Colonel, Renaril wants you to take charge of the Arume troops in this zone. KK, you round up the usual suspects and see what we can still use. I'm going to run back to the office and swap out some of my gear. You want anything from the locker?"

"My AR-Ten, my Gepard and the chrome Desert Eagle would be swell, thanks."

"Mine again? What's wrong with yours?"

"Nothing, _except_ that the ammo costs more than I make in a week."

"Yeah, yeah." Schuhart climbed into the truck's cab, stuffing his bad leg in without taking the brace off. "Colonel, you want anything while I'm stocking up?"

"She can use my spare SOPMOD," Keiko cut in. "Off with you, boy."

Schuhart nodded. "I'll be back in a few, then... And Colonel, sorry about what I said earlier."

"Curious," Kang mused as the truck rolled away. "If you hadn't told me, I would have thought you were more like brother and sister."

"You're not the first to say that," Keiko replied. "...Hey, did he just drive off with the bodies?"

"Yes."

The giantess frowned. "He'd better bring them back... You wait here a minute, I'll run down Spiegel and Isobael for you."

"Thank you." Left alone, Kang watched as the last of a procession of levitating stretchers was guided into the belly of the transport. Feeling a presence at her elbow, she looked down to find an Arume in civilian clothes gazing up at her.

"You are Colonel Kang, who is Uncle Roland's friend." No, not an Arume – a gosta.

"Yes..." The soldier blinked. "Did he order you to call him that?"

"No," the girl said solemnly as the transport lifted off. "We chose it."

"I see... Then, what is your name?"

"Richardson." The gosta seemed very proud. "He gave us all names, because we only had numbers before we came here."

Kang had told herself that it was best not to become involved in the gosta problem, but how could one remain detached when the 'problem' manifested in such a form? "That's nice," she offered, sitting down on the curb. "Is Uncle Roland kind to you?"

"Very kind." Richardson also sat after a few moments. "He told us about you."

_My reputation always seems to precede me._ "What did he say?"

"He said you are a good person." The girl wasn't looking at her any more. "But how can a good person be on the side of the Arume?"

For several seconds Kang merely sat and pondered. "I don't know if I can explain it very well," she finally began. "My country is in a lot of trouble now. Our leaders are selfish and incompetent, parasites who feed on the people while everything I have fought to protect is let to wither away. The people have no will to do anything about it... Most of them simply believe the lies they are fed, or else they have forgotten why the People's Republic exists at all. This isn't the China my father's grandparents worked so hard to build." She smiled wanly. "You should ask Sch – ask Roland about the Long March some time, he's a better storyteller than me. As for the Arume, the truth is that I was very suspicious at first... Since then I found that some of my fears were correct, but I also found my own 'good person' among them. One alone cannot make much difference in this large country... but two might be able."

"So there can be good people mixed among bad people... and also bad people mixed among good?"

"That's right."

Richardson's wide, curious eyes met Kang's dark ones. "Were those deserters bad people just because they were frightened and ran away?"

"..."

"I don't really understand," the girl confessed. "It seemed like killing those Arume was what made them bad, but we have killed a lot of Arume too..."

"I see now." Without consciously choosing to do so, Kang gently put an arm around the gosta's shoulders. "There's still a lot for you to learn... You see, killing someone who is trying to kill you is not the same as killing someone who is helpless." _I can't believe I'm saying this!_ "And in war, simply killing your enemy usually isn't the most important thing. Sometimes it isn't important at all."

"But... what does that make Uncle Roland? Good or bad?"

Explaining the futility of a binary good-bad worldview would probably confuse the girl further, Kang decided. "The Roland who fought beside me was definitely a good person," she declared, "but the Roland I see now... He's not the same man. I thought he had changed so much that he became someone else, someone who is bad all the way through."

"That is why you were so angry?"

"Yes... All I could think of was how much I wanted to hit him." The elder female shook her head. "But after being near him for a few minutes, I saw the old Roland start to reappear."

* * *

"So what are you going to put in your official report?"

Renaril wished she could pretend she hadn't heard Eripol's question. "I'll worry about it when I write it," she growled.

"Two new transmissions," Negadael announced. "One is another complaint from the IAEA, the other is from the renegades."

The group commander perked up slightly. "Plain text again?"

"Yes, ma'am... They're demanding that we recall the covert units operating inside Yuen Long."

Renaril's eyebrows arched. "We have covert units in that district?"

"Maybe Schuhart does," Eripol suggested. "Want to ask?"

"I suppose we'd better – hm?" Renaril turned her head at the sound of the door chime. "Who is it?"

"Aha." The door opened despite being nominally locked. Beyond it stood a stern-faced Arume in a flowing cloak. "So _this_ is where you've been hiding."

Negadael and Eripol both jumped out of their chairs, saluting stiffly. "Senior Counselor Daebaril..!"

Renaril gulped. "...Hi, Mom."

* * *

"I see everyone is here," Schuhart observed, climbing out of his vehicle. "Did I miss anything?"

"No," said Keiko. "We were just starting."

"Great." Reaching into the cargo bed, the man produced a Colt carbine fitted with enough accessories to pass for a Mattel display. "Here you go," he said, handing it to the colonel. "Let's see now... This is for KK," he went on, producing an old ArmaLite automatic rifle. "And these too." Out came a humongous sniper rifle and a slab-sided silver handgun, followed by an old belt-fed Browning. "That's for Sauer... Richardson, these are for you." The girl stepped forward to receive her presents: a vintage Luger and a Mauser carbine with a fat cup-shaped device clamped to the muzzle. "I'll explain them in a little while – just let me get my own stuff squared away."

The Arume and gosta present watched incredulously, the rest less so, as the arms dealer slung a Heckler & Koch with a telescopic sight across his back, strapped a sawed-off Remington to his thigh, holstered a long-barreled and obviously custom fabricated pistol under each arm, tucked a pair of Colt .45s into the back of his pants, crammed a pair of Browning Hi-Powers – one of them intricately engraved and gold plated – into the front of the same, affixed a Taurus and a Steyr to the front of his vest with Velcro strips and finally crammed every pocket, pouch and loop on his person with the magazines for this assortment. After taking a moment to adjust the position of the Mauser broomhandle he'd been carrying all day in its snug wooden box, he clapped his hands. "Now, shall we get cracking?"

Kang had to smile despite the circumstances. "Welcome back, box-cannon man."


	18. Oh No You Didn't!

_Part 17: Oh No You Didn't!_

Kang was certain she was dreaming, that the images flashing before her eyes were figments produced in her own mind as the numbing drug seeped through her body. She could no longer feel the sting of the dart still lodged just under the center of her collarbone. The projectile's launcher lay on the ground in front of her, maybe ten meters away. Beside it was the body of an Arume adjutant, her head lying at an unnatural angle, wide eyes staring blankly at the sky. The colonel didn't believe in childish ideas like fate or karma, but she couldn't deny that something in her life was coming full circle with a vengeance right now.

Roland Schuhart had used the same Steyr GB during their last fight together, on a bleak winter day in this city's coastal ruins. He'd pried it from the hands of a dead terrorist at the Museum of Human History, always on the lookout for odd or obscure weapons to add to his collection. The PT92 affixed to his front had come to him in the same way, same place, and same time. What a hypocrite she'd been to question his sanity then, when the whole world was going mad and dragging her with it. It was almost funny: she'd spent the day wishing the old Schuhart would return, and now her only desire was for him to disappear back into the depths of her memory...

_Pakka!_ Spiegel jerked, a nine millimeter jacketed hollowpoint plowing a channel straight through and out the back of her skull. The collaborator NCO on Kang's right swore incoherently as he fumbled with his holster. Schuhart shot him twice in the neck, striking the chink in his armor without breaking pace. Isobael panicked and ran: there was a rapid _pakkapakkapakka_ and she dropped with three rounds in her back. A bolt of violet flashed past Kang, piercing the outside of Schuhart's upper left arm. He grimaced momentarily. _Pakka-pakka!_

Yes, this must be a dream. That was why Schuhart's blood was white, why his eye glowed electric blue, and why Kang stood untouched as he so efficiently ended the lives of his allies. Bullets snapped past her, ephemeral copper-shelled bees buzzing angrily to their smashing finales. Schuhart slapped the empty Steyr against the Velcro strip on his vest and tore loose the Brazilian Beretta lookalike which hung beside it. Muzzle flashes bloomed dirty yellow in the fading light as the arms dealer moved into the shade of the church which loomed overhead, a gunman of the apocalypse sounding the death knell for this crazy world.

No... not a dream, but a nightmare.

* * *

_Earlier_

"Group Commander, do you copy?"

_"I'm here,"_ Renaril answered distractedly. _"What is it, Commander?"_

"Our plan of operation is ready," Spiegel reported. "We're waiting on your go-ahead."

_"Uh, that's good... Just give me, um, a few minutes to get a surveillance update."_

Schuhart pushed closer to the Arume transceiver around which the key players were gathered. "You're stalling, Renaril. What's wrong this time?"

_"Nothing's wrong... Well, just... My mother is here."_

"So tell her to buzz off and let you get some work done."

There was another of those awkward silences, broken by an embarrassed _harrumph_ from Captain Isobael. "...Mister Schuhart, do you know who the group commander's mother is?"

"Do I _look_ like I know?" Schuhart wrinkled his nose. "There's a war on, lady. I ain't got time for the warm 'n' fuzzy family shit."

* * *

"Wow." Astra ran a finger down the side of the Luger. "It looks really well made."

"She got a classic," Sauer agreed. "The forime don't build things like that now."

"They don't?" The smallest of the gosta carefully grasped the pistol's toggle knobs and pulled the hinged mechanism up and back. "Why not?"

"Too expensive," the boyish gunner replied, running a rag over her own new sidearm. "That was one of the last ever produced."

"How do you know?"

"Look here." Pulling the Parabellum from Astra's fingers, Sauer pointed to the markings crisply stamped along its top. "There was a list of dates and factory codes in one of my books... Richardson, why did Uncle Roland give you this model?"

"He said it would fit my hands better than the new designs." Richardson didn't look up from her rifle as Sauer laid the Luger beside its mistress. "I don't think I'll actually need to use it."

"Hopefully none of us will," Benelli interjected. "But it's good that Uncle Roland trusts us enough to give them to us, isn't it?"

"I don't think it's about trust," Rubin muttered. "Uncle Roland knows the Arume still want to terminate us."

Webley shivered. "You mean the Arume might play a dirty trick?"

"They've played some already." Sauer pulled back her slide and locked it. "Anyway, Uncle Roland was right about our hands – those Glocks the other side is using are _huge."_ She tipped the pistol up and peered into the breech critically. "Even this type is a bit thick..."

Harrington cocked her head. "Then why didn't you ask for something else?"

"Can't," Sauer grunted. "Miss Camilla gave me this when they were putting her to sleep. I promised I'd keep it with me until she comes back."

Richardson perked up. "You saw Miss Camilla? I heard she was badly hurt."

"Very bad," Sauer confirmed. "The side of her face was all... It was terrible."

"Will she live?"

"I don't know. They took her to the ship, so I think we should try and visit later." Placing the Hi-Power on the spread cloth between her knees, Sauer next turned to her machine gun. "I'm sure Uncle Roland won't refuse us if we do our best in the next mission."

"What's that about me?"

When Richardson looked behind herself, Schuhart was standing close by. "We were hoping," she said, switching from casual Arumic back to English, "that we could visit Miss Camilla later."

"If the medics say she can have visitors, it's fine with me." The one-eyed man nodded to the Russian who had silently watched over the girls during their practice. "Spasiba, tovarishch. You'd better refuel while it's quiet... I haven't heard any explosions in a while," he went on, joining Richardson. "Did you finish already?"

"Yes... It was easier than I thought."

"Not bad." Schuhart looked approvingly at the rubble piles on the far side of the crater-pocked parking lot. "Well, girls... it seems we may not have any more fighting today."

"It's over?" Sauer wasn't the only one to react with disappointment. "The renegades surrendered?"

"No." The 'uncle' began to walk along the row of pupils. "Tessier-Ashpool put us on hold."

Richardson didn't get it, but Korth seemed to understand. "Trouble with Renaril again?" she asked curtly.

"In a sense." Schuhart picked up Rubin's submachine gun and broke it open. "Her mother found out what she's been up to... Seems the lady is some kind of politician up in the sky eyes' Villa Straylight, and she's making us wait while they give diplomacy its funeral oration."

"Then the renegades are still out there?" Harrington frowned. "Are we doing nothing?"

"Of course not." The arms dealer snapped the Shpagin shut and returned it. "The troops in the outer parts of Yuen Long District remained loyal to Spiegel, which left the renegades thinly surrounded from the beginning. Putting off the attack gives us time to reinforce the containment line and reconnoiter the area."

"So they can't get away."

"Right." The man turned his face to the orange sky. "Let's hope this doesn't become a night fight. I hate – " He was interrupted yet again by the ringing of the satphone. "Hello?" His expression suddenly turned to one of intense dislike. "Isabel..."

* * *

"How's it now?"

"Still hurts." Elaqebil tried to stifle a whimper as her bearer hopped across a large hole in the road. "The movies always make flesh wounds look so trivial!"

"I've told you that enough times," Azanael panted. Sweat trickled down her face and plastered her steel-shaded hair to her forehead as she ran, her troublesome friend's weighty frame pressing against her back. "It's not... a fun experience..." She glanced to her left, where Kataphel was chugging along with the double burdens of a small wounded Arume and a large automatic rifle. "Where are we going?"

"If we can get onto the Kam Tin Road," the so-called engineer grunted, "we might be able to reach Shek Kong before they catch us."

"All right..." The pilot didn't ask what would happen after that, as she was still trying to psychologically catch up with events thus far. Being taken hostage along with Elaqebil and the twenty-odd relief personnel had been unnerving enough, but the subsequent rescue firmly planted a cherry of surreality on top of this royally fudged state of affairs.

Kataphel was the only commando whose name she knew, if it was even her real identifier: the rest called each other strictly by nicknames. In addition to her, the commander and the other two who Azanael had seen in the mess aboard _Hyacinth_ were present, as were several more who seemed to be part of the same crew. None of them were using any visible Arume equipment: they wore heavy boots, fatigue pants and load-bearing vests. When they talked among themselves, their rapid streams of cryptic words and numbers came in a blend of Arumic, English and something that sounded faintly like Italian. She _still_ couldn't place the accents. Moreover, she'd never heard of an Arume unit like this. How long had it been operating? Where did it recruit its members? Who did it answer to?

"Arty scooters!" The shout came from the tail of the procession. "Five, six and seven o'clock, range three hundred!"

"Damn," Kataphel sighed. "The diversion didn't work."

_"Incomiiiiiiing!"_

"Get off the road!" The commander's cry drifted back from the head of the line. "Spread out, stay low, find cover!"

_Better and better,_ Azanael thought sarcastically. _So who rescues the rescuers?_

* * *

"Let's go! Pack 'em in!" Schuhart had transformed into a frenetic dynamo, directing the hustle and bustle around the pair of rickety pickup trucks parked outside the triage site. "Everyone make sure your gear is ready – weapons, clips, mags, belts, bayonets and spare barrels if you got 'em, canteens, bandages..."

"Sherbet powder," Errol Darwin chimed in, "caramels, mints, condoms – gwaaak!"

"...toothbrushes, combs and kitchen sinks," Phil finished smoothly. "Quit wankin' about an' throw me a Smelly... Oy, Roland! Yah takin' all the li'l sheilas, yah seppo bastard?"

"Half in my truck, half in the other," Schuhart answered briskly, "and one of you in each. KK, you have first pick."

"All right." The giantess dropped an armload of boxed ammunition into the bed of her allotted vehicle. "I want Krag and Johnson on Brens, Astra and Borchardt as Bren assistants, Karan as sniper, Errol as grenadier and... Vickers, Mannlicher, Benelli and Lebel as vanilla infantry."

Her cousin nodded. "Okay... The rest of you ride with me. Phil, you too."

"Wicked." The Australian picked up his new bayonet and gave it an experimental swing. "Croikey, _this_ is a knoife!"

"Watch where you wave that," Schuhart admonished. "Colonel, you riding with me or with her?"

"Eh?" Kang needed a few moments to pull her focus away from all the locking and loading. "...With her, if that's not a problem."

"Off with you, then." The scarred man went around to the front of his truck and opened the hood. "This won't take a minute."

"What about me?" Isobael asked crossly.

"You said you wanted no part in any _unauthorized_ actions," Schuhart reminded her. "Having second thoughts?"

The Arume captain folded her arms, her expression resentful. "I don't approve of this," she snapped, "but one of us must still accompany you and observe."

"Fine." There was a muffled _clunk_ from the vicinity of the engine. "Grab a weapon and get in."

Her own preparations complete, Richardson turned her eyes to Keiko and her gathering forces. "Karan," the big woman was saying, "are you okay with that?"

"Yes," the Indian asserted, delicately placing the enormous sniper rifle on the open tailgate. "This is... very generous of you."

"I don't feel like hanging back." Keiko picked up Astra under the arms and deposited her beside the behemoth. "Have fun."

The onlooking gosta understood that the pack leader wasn't literally instructing Karan to enjoy himself, but she wondered if the same was true for Phil. "Mister Darwin," she asked aloud, "what happened to your rifle?"

"Nothing happened to it," Schuhart interjected. "He used all his ammunition at Lion Rock and we're not exactly rolling in spare cartons of seven-point-five Swiss." He leaned around the side of the raised hood. "You don't _have_ to take an Ishapore, you know."

"Hush," said Phil indignantly. "It remoinds me of 'ome, even if it _wos_ built by curry-eaters."

"I heard that," Karan called testily.

The offender wasn't listening. "Brian!" he whooped, accosting Daemon as he walked out of the alley. "Come tah see us off, yah pommie wowsah?"

"No," the Anglo-African retorted, pushing his glasses up his nose while his voice dripped with sarcasm. "I came to pray for the well-being of my favorite argy-bargy convict spawn."

"Gawd bless yer," said Phil happily. Seeing that the gosta and their equipment were settled in the truck, he climbed aboard and pulled up the tailgate. "'Ave fun mindin' the castle, mate."

There was a muted _bang_ as Schuhart closed the engine compartment. "Sorry to dump the housework on you with no warning, Daemon. I don't think we'll be gone long."

"I'm used to it," the other said patiently. "But what should I say if the Arume start complaining?"

"Tell 'em I'll talk to 'em when I get back." Schuhart took a shiny cylinder with a spring-loaded fitting out of his vest. "One dose should be enough, right?"

"More than enough."

"Right." The arms dealer jammed the end of the cylinder against the side of his weak leg. "Nnngh! ...I gotta quit stalling and find a surgeon."

"You should," his head of intelligence confirmed. "Before you develop an addiction."

"I know." Schuhart undid his leg brace and placed it behind the truck's front seats. "Right now that's a risk I can take." He climbed in, slamming the door behind him. "Everybody ready?"

"Waiting on you," Keiko called.

"Okay." The engine turned over with a bellicose sputtering. Schuhart let it run for a few moments, then put the truck into forward gear and pulled away from the curb. Keiko followed at a moderate distance as the pickup weaved down the cluttered street and turned onto a wider road, gaining speed in the open.

"For the record," Isobael declared, clearly audible to the other passengers thanks to the open center window at the rear of the cab, "I absolutely do not approve of this!"

"For the record," Schuhart countered, "I heard you the first time... Look at the bright side," he added, steering towards an on-ramp. "I'm the only one in this crate who isn't gay!"

"Humph." The captain threw a withering look at Phil before resolutely staring ahead through the windshield. "This would be easy if we had an Evangelion."

"Would it?" The trucks came to a place where part of a building had collapsed onto the road. The bulldozer Sherman was there, a compact green thing tenaciously plowing rubble out of the way. "You know what we'd be dealing with if the Evas were still around? Tomorrow the Freedom and Democracy Impact! Next week, the Great Proletarian Cultural Impact! We'd never get anything done!" Schuhart re-accelerated as the obstacle fell behind. "I'll tell you one thing, though: this _would_ be simple if our Tiger weren't still out of action."

"Tiger?" Isobael repeated. "How would a predatory cat – "

"Not a cat," the driver interrupted, "a tank... Herr Klapp didn't just throw his half-tracks into that swamp: he also dumped a Tiger, a Panzer Four and two StuGs... Desperate to keep 'em away from the Soviets. Anyway, the Tiger is an eighty-eight with fifty tonnes of armor and engine under it. Its name was once shorthand for 'serious business.'"

Richardson had seen glimpses of what the cannons along the shore had done to Spiegel's hovercrafts and, though she knew the guns of the tanks which had come off the ship were even better, she found the notion of a self-propelled 88mm very appealing. Isobael, however, didn't appear to appreciate it. "It was that good?" she asked skeptically.

"Good?" Schuhart laughed. "Try _horrible._ The Tiger was an expensive, fragile, underpowered gas-guzzler, too wide to be easily moved by rail and too heavy to cross small bridges or be towed by its own kind. What it _did_ have going for it was a solid punch and brand appeal, which is why it's the Tiger and not the Panther that Hollywood pimps without pause... The way some of them depict it, you'd think the Germans won every battle by parking a Tiger out in plain view and putting up a sign that read 'Kommen Sie hier, Mutterfucker' until the day some Admiralty types put a battleship gun on a Sherman and sailed it across the Channel."

"What..?"

"Exactly." Schuhart paused to signal a left turn and put the wheel hard over at the next intersection. "Now there are hardly any real Tigers left, and ours is the only one that can still fight... That's when it actually works, of course."

Isobael looked at him incredulously. "Why would you _want_ to use such a thing?"

"Annoyances aside, the Tiger does have redeeming qualities." The one-eyed man slipped a finger under the lip of his helmet and scratched. "It's a smooth ride. It can take out a Rand McNally atlas from a kilometer away. It has the best owner's manual ever written. Grown men wet their pants when they see it coming... You just don't get that kind of reaction with the T-Fifty-Five." He glanced at the rear-view mirror. "Everyone okay back there?"

"We're good, mate."

_We are?_ Richardson's tender backside wasn't accustomed to this crude means of transport – the Kettenkrad's seats had cushions, after all. She believed Uncle Roland was trying his best to avoid the bigger bumps and potholes, of course she did, but at this speed he couldn't possibly go around all of them.

Her only solace was found in scrunching down into her corner of the cargo bed, bracing herself by using the plywood butt of her rifle as a third leg. Tucking her head in partially alleviated the buffeting of the slipstream, but left her with nothing but the Karabiner crutch to look at. Sauer had explained the meanings of the letters and numerals on its nicked and scuffed steel body, the _7.62_ and _byf_ and _41_ neatly stamped in a column, though not the miniscule pictures on the side. One was partly effaced by a series of gouges, but looked like it might be a stylized rendering of a bird with spread wings above something in a circle. The other, a six-pointed star, was intact. She would have to ask Uncle Roland about them later.

Something nudged the girl's shoulder. Raising her head brought her face to face with Harrington. She felt a pang of guilt as their eyes met: here was the one with whom she shared a special bond, the one at whose side she was meant to stand in battle, yet she'd been unable to prevent their separation when unity was most important. Harrington nudged her again when she tried to look away, and stretched out across the breadth of the cargo bed's ribbed bottom. Richardson hesitated a few moments, then followed. Her action drew a smile from the other girl as she clumsily put her arms around that slender body. Harrington's lips moved silently, forming the request Richardson already anticipated: _link with me._ It was a desire to which the gosta would gladly accede at other times and places, but to do it here was risky...

Sauer, seated just aft of them, had missed nothing. The gosta gunner gave the pair a discrete thumps-up and casually positioned herself so that her own frame blocked them the others' view. Encouraged by this solidarity, Richardson carefully brought a hand to her partner's waist and slipped it under the back of her shirt. Harrington shivered, drawing closer as inexperienced fingers traced the contours of her back and wiggled past the strap of her bra. When Richardson found the sweet spot and applied her palm to it, the telepath pulled her companion into a firm embrace, smiling contentedly.

All the potholes in the world were suddenly irrelevant.

* * *

"You've been quiet for a while," Keiko remarked. "What's on your mind?"

"Many things." Kang watched the truck ahead with a pensive expression. "I feel as if one part of me believes the Schuhart I knew would never do the things he does now, while another part insists that he was always capable of ruthless actions."

"I hear he used to be a real idealist," the second vehicle's driver commented. "I wouldn't know."

"No?" The colonel frowned. "But the two of you are – "

"Are so alike, I know." Keiko shook her head. "It's because he takes after my father... You've known him longer than I have."

Looking to her left, Kang watched skeletal, half-submerged buildings flashing past in the water below the road. "Who was your father?" she asked at last.

"A soldier of fortune." The muscular woman's tone was matter-of-fact. "He wasn't a great parent, but he tried to look out for me."

"What was his name?"

"He had a lot of names." Keiko took out a canteen and rested it against the steering wheel while unscrewing the cap. "I never knew if any were real."

"And your mother?"

"Didn't have one – just an old killer with a soft spot and no cooking skills." The operator laughed a little. "He must have looked just like Roland when he was younger."

"What happened to him?" Kang realized too late that she might be prying deeper than she ought. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't – "

"It's fine," Keiko said placidly. "My father was killed in action, fighting a PMC over some refugees. He left me a little money, a pile of firepower and a note telling me to find a cousin I'd never met."

"I see." The Chinese woman digested the information for a short while. "So Schuhart resembles his uncle."

"Totally." Keiko took a sip from the battered metal container. "Want some?"

"No, thank you." Kang could see the back of Schuhart's helmet framed in the rear window of the leading truck's cab, but nothing else. It was an aptly vague image. "It's strange," she confessed. "I call him a friend even though I don't know his real name or age or almost anything about him."

"That's how it is," said Keiko frankly. "Roland Schuhart is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma... but he's the only family I have."

* * *

"Mister Darwin?"

"Yeah?"

Sauer had to raise her voice even higher as the pickup traversed the crest of a hill, encountering heavier winds. "Where did you learn to fight?"

"Australian Army," Phil answered with great pride. "I wos a marksman wi' the First of the Third of the First, an' me brother pulled wires fer the Navy."

"Did you like it there?"

"Oh, it wos lovely... 'cept fer the pogos, the morale vamps an' the gun bunnies. Me digger mates were all roight, though." The man began to recite a little ditty: "We are a ragged army, the A-N-Z-A-C! We cannot shoot, we don't salute, what bleedin' use are we?"

"Why didn't – " Sauer broke off to grab hold of the truck's side as the vehicle descended a particularly steep stretch. "Why didn't you stay?"

"Got bored." Phil offered a shrug. "An' I loiked the old elephant gun better'n the plastic fantastics they use now."

* * *

"I can't believe you haven't been hit."

"Same to you," Azanael retorted, wincing when the gravelly dirt scraped the exposed part of her belly as she crawled to the rubble-choked end of the cramped alley. How she missed her forime coveralls! "It's still quiet?"

"Yeah." Kataphel pulled the magazine out of her weapon, tapped it against the butt a couple of times and slapped it back in. "They know they can light us up the moment we try to escape. They're not in a hurry."

"They could eliminate us right now," the pilot pointed out. "Why wait?"

"We're the only leverage Hyman has. If we all die, there'll be no incentive for Renaril to put off grinding him and his friends into paste." The sapper – that, according to Elaqebil, was the best description for one who was both an engineer and a soldier – rolled her shoulders to relieve tension. "How are the wounded?"

"Uncomfortable, but stable... I think."

"Good. Any word from the commander?"

"She said help was on the way, but it doesn't seem to be coming quickly." Azanael's brow furrowed. "I would have thought a group with a direct line to Yoshimura could call in some... serious favors."

"Probably," Kataphel agreed, "but we're no such group."

_Now it comes out._ "Were you just name-dropping?"

"Oh, he knows about us. It would be hard to work without his approval." Kataphel crawled a little higher on the pile of dirt and broken concrete. "He's not useful for much else these days. Mariel is the same."

"So who _are_ you? Some kind of internal police unit?"

The sapper shook her head. "Nothing so official. We're... how should I put it? We're very concerned by the path the Arume are taking, and by the way certain interests within our own race are actively undermining all attempts at reform." She made a sweeping motion with her hand. "Hence the recent events on this peninsula."

"I see," Azanael said slowly. "How did you become involved in it?"

"I was an ordinary engineer on an ordinary ship." Kataphel's reply was a candid one. "I didn't give a damn about the way we treat our subjects... I believed in the official policies, and that was that."

"What happened to change your mind?"

"A midlife crisis," Kataphel quipped dryly. "My crew were stranded in unoccupied territory. The forime there helped us survive, not caring that they stood to gain little from it."

"And that made you rethink your attitude?"

"Feh." Another shake of the sentry's head. "I wish I could say their kindness immediately showed us the error of our ways, but I can't. We screwed them over and didn't feel a wisp of guilt until we were home safe."

"Oh." _So that's what you meant by breaking a promise... Wait!_ The hints and scraps Azanael had picked up over the span of her brushes with Kataphel began to click together like bits of some ornate machine. "You were part of a reconnaissance mission, weren't you?" she accused. "Those things happened here, before the existence of this world was announced to all Arume."

"More or less." Kataphel's speech became guarded. "I'll say this: the forime who are coming to save us have every right to hate our guts."


	19. Passive Aggressive

_Part 18: Passive-Aggressive_

"Well," said Kang reluctantly, "it's not the _worst_ plan I've heard."

"A half-witted plan now beats a brilliant plan tomorrow," Schuhart opined. "Questions?"

Rubin raised a hand. "Can you summarize it one last time, please?"

"Sure." The arms dealer plastered a ragged map against the side of his truck. "When the balloon goes up, our tanks commanded by the talented Mister Singh will rudely barge in from the north and east and engage the renegades' mechanized contingent. At the same time, diversionary teams will be inserted by boat and helicopter along the western shore. Meanwhile we'll approach from the south and try to slip past the enemy frontline. If we succeed, we'll head straight for the objective and reinforce the stranded party. If not, we'll find dig in and wait for the tanks to catch up... Ideally we'll be able to call in a pickup for the pinned unit once we've cleared the area, leaving us free to deal with whatever the renegades have left. Got it?"

"Yes."

"Good." Schuhart folded up the map and pocketed it. "Let's go... Errol! Pay attention to where you're pointing that RPG!"

Richardson had left most of her equipment in the back of the truck, and consequently needed only to pull herself up and swing a leg over the side. Some of the others had been cautious or careless, and needed help reboarding the vehicle. The seating arrangement remained mostly the same, with Harrington across from her and Sauer at her right elbow. "All right," the latter muttered, flipping up the top cover on her .30 caliber, "now the real work begins." She laid the end of a cartridge belt in the open mechanism, closed the lid and thumped it. "It's-a _showtime."_

Richardson was about to ask what she meant by that, but Uncle Roland's voice stole her attention. "South Asia Consolidated is coming on to the field," he announced dramatically, speaking into a handheld radio. "I see the indomitable Coach Singh and Coach Khan at the front. Now the players are taking their places – the crowd's really going wild out here, folks... There's the starter's whistle, and the game has begun!" Dropping the radio, Schuhart quickly started the engine. "Now on BBC Two, _ROLLING STUKA BANZAAAAAAAI!"_

Bodies and armaments violently slid towards the rear as the pickup accelerated with breathtaking speed. Extricating her face from Sauer's modest cleavage, Richardson saw that the second truck had already fallen well behind as they zigzagged down the hillside road. She offered the other gosta an apologetic look while the girl straightened her shirt. "Uh..."

Sauer seemed unperturbed. "Here," she said, recovering her comrade's MP40 from where it had landed. "You watch the front."

* * *

"Oh boy." Keiko cranked the wheel one way and then the other, the engine whining as it struggled to meet her demands for greater speed. "Roland's doing his happy maniac act."

"I noticed." Kang clamped her carbine between her knees and flexed her fingers. "Has he been doing it often?"

The giantess shook her head. "This is the first time in months," she replied. "Used to happen a lot?"

"I saw it a few times." The colonel laid her weapon across her lap and began to inspect the reflex sight clamped to its top. "Sometimes I thought it was a tactic he used to confuse his enemies, and at others I wondered if it was actually a coping mechanism... Or maybe he really _is_ mad, nothing more."

"Roland's a little mad." Keiko spoke as though she found this entirely unremarkable. "He exaggerates."

"A little mad." Kang wanted to laugh, but couldn't. "He's a little mad and he uses nuclear weapons. Does he sell them as well?"

"No," said Keiko, her tone completely serious. "We have rules about that. We don't deal in NBC material and we don't take payment in drugs, conflict diamonds, oil reserves, endangered species or human lives... We're not gangsters." She glanced at her companion before guiding the vehicle off the meandering road and onto a wide highway, the entrance to another underground tunnel visible in the rear-view mirror. "Better roll your window down now, or you'll have to shoot through it later."

* * *

"What's going on?"

"We've run out of time." The commander strode from one side of the debris-strewn room to the other, vibrant eyes inspecting the defenses critically. "Backup is inbound, but it's anyone's guess whether our ammunition will hold out long enough for us to meet them. The renegades are attacking from all sides."

Azanael flinched a little as something exploded outside. "How can I help you?"

"Here." The officer handed her a captured pulse gun and an armload of full cassettes. "I assume you remember these from basic training."

The pilot did, albeit vaguely. "I've always avoided fighting since I was discharged," she warned. "Don't expect anything great."

"We'll take whatever we can get," the commander said gravely. "Stay with the wounded. If we can't hold the alleys, you're their last defense."

* * *

"Oy, Roland!"

"Yeah?"

"Are we gettin' paid by the hour or no?"

"I'll think about it." Schuhart produced his broomhandle and popped out the magazine, steering with two fingers. "How about a bonus for coming back alive?"

"Ooh," said Phil. "Really?"

"Sure." The driver reloaded the Mauser with a magazine twice the length of the last. "If that's what it takes to keep _you_ from doing anything crazier than normal." He laid the pistol on the dashboard. "There's the enemy line – in we gooooooo!"

Richardson had expected some kind of fortification, or at least some trenches and sandbag piles. What she saw, as the highway's leftward curve around the foot of the last hill fell behind them, was an open stretch of road with some sort of canal or waterway on the right side... and then the truck was weaving past idling hovercrafts and startled troops, Arume and forime alike. It took a few seconds for them to start shooting: the gosta ducked as something ricocheted off the edge of the cab roof. Streaks of violet seared the air. Phil was leaning over the side opposite herself and Sauer by the time the girl lifted her head, firing away with a wide grin.

_Woomph!_

Blue eyes snapped to the rear. One of the renegade hovercrafts was burning, drawing a wrinkled spiral of smoke in the air as it spun endlessly. Standing upright in the second truck, Errol Darwin balanced the empty rocket-propelled grenade launcher on his shoulder and thrust a triumphant fist into the air. "Roight inna tuckerbag, wankah!"

Schuhart must have heard that whoop despite all the other noise. "Australians," he proclaimed. "When you need to take ground fast, hold it to the last breath, _and_ piss off every REMF in the regiment, accept _no_ substitutes!" A bullet from ahead impacted the windshield, leaving a proverbial spiderweb of cracks. "Ack!" The monocular driver grimaced. "I just had that _washed,_ jackass!"

"'Ere!" Phil fired, then ejected a casing. "Got 'im!"

"Richardson!" Suddenly Sauer was at her elbow, cradling the Browning. Once she had her fellow gosta's attention, she set the machine gun on end and motioned for Richardson to move to her left side. "Get ready!"

_Get ready for what?_ Richardson didn't ask. Up front, the satphone began to ring again.

* * *

_"Yeah?"_

Renaril didn't waste an instant. "Mother's gone," she said. "What's happening?"

_"Almost there,"_ Schuhart announced. _"Is the airlift ready?"_

"Every detail."

_"Good. Resistance thus far has been thin, so – waugh!"_

* * *

The yelp summed up Richardson's own feelings pretty well. "Just lost a tire," Uncle Roland reported as he fought to keep the lurching, jolting truck under control. "I'll call you back when we're done, okay?" Dropping the phone, he put both hands on the wheel and pulled over to the right, braking gently. "Up and out, people!"

Phil took the order at face value, planting a foot on the sidewall and jumping right off the side. "Geronnymoo!"

Sauer tried to copy the move, despite her burden. "Garibald – _oof!"_

Richardson and the others waited for the tailgate to drop. Moving with alacrity born of thorough practice, she slung the Karabiner across her back, took her submachine gun in hand and disembarked from the stern with relative grace. "Uncle Roland, where do we go now?"

"That way." Schuhart pointed towards a nearby complex with four cruciform high-rise blocks. "Our objective is on the other side of the Sun Yuen Long Centre." The gosta's ears picked up a muted _click_ as he fitted the end of the broomhandle's wooden box into a slot on the Mauser's grip. "Spread out, flanking formation on me. _Go!"_

"Fuck yeah." Phil's voice became deep and breathy, oozing exaggerated masculinity as he snapped the swordlike bayonet onto the end of his Lee-Enfield. "It's _banana_ time."

* * *

"We're going to be dealing with the fallout from this for a _looooong_ time," Eripol sighed. "By the way, Group Commander..."

Renaril's eyes were on the main display. She'd reduced the image resolution in exchange for better latency, and now blurred figures stuttered about in stop-motion. "Hm?"

"You agreed that our office would pay Eto Delo for help dealing with the renegades, but Schuhart never specified how much we'll be paying."

"That's right," Negadael concurred. "What if he demands some ridiculous figure? Or something other than money?"

"If he's the professional he claims to be, he won't do that. Otherwise, well..." The officer shrugged. "Let's hope Colonel Kang is a positive influence."

"Yeah." Eripol seemed less than convinced. "We're relying on 'hope' an awful lot these days."

"It's not the money I'm worried about," Renaril confessed. "It's those gosta he picked up."

"You're still going to pursue that?" Negadael frowned. "Forgive me for being contrary, Group Commander, but I cannot think it will improve relations."

"Nothing I can do." Renaril slouched in her seat, slurping from her half-drunk can of blended fruit juice with tepid enthusiasm. "You heard my mother."

* * *

"They may lose the war," Elaqebil commented wryly, "but not before they win the battle."

Azanael wanted to rebuke her friend for the show of pessimism, but couldn't go through with it. Not while her hands were white with the blood of the frail figure lying at her knees. "...Are you giving up?" she asked at last.

"Have I ever been a quitter?" The superintendent began crawling towards the pilot and her patient, a bandaged leg dragging behind her. Each movement was accompanied by a hiss of pain. "We're a long way from our own world, Flight Chief. There's still so much I want to do."

Azanael couldn't say the same for herself. There wouldn't be much left unfulfilled if she died here, in a stranger's abandoned shop a world away from home... No mountain of films she hadn't yet watched, no pretty girls she'd never gone out with, none of the things Elaqebil had to look forward to. To see her surrogate family again, was that alone too much to hope for?

Elaqebil wasn't finished. "You too," she went on, that familiar gleam of dogged persistence coming into her eyes. "Promise me that if you survive this, you'll go back to Kobe and – "

"Please," Azanael groaned, acutely aware of all the patients' eyes watching the two of them. _"Don't_ start talking about how I need to make a child with my best friend."

She regretted her demand almost immediately. "I wasn't going to say that," Elaqebil mumbled. "Just that... you should try looking at her differently."

"Why?" The pilot drew the back of her arm across her forehead, leaving a sheen of sweat on her pale skin. "Why do you want Akane to be my lover?"

"Because I care," the superintendent answered bluntly. "If I didn't say anything, you'd turn into a miserable spinster... Maybe it _doesn't_ have to be Kawashima, but you're already closer to her than anyone."

"We..." Azanael felt a reluctant heat in her cheeks. "We aren't that close..."

"No?" Elaqebil smirked knowingly, spirits rebounding despite her pain. "You worked a grueling job so that she'd have enough money to expand the restaurant. You slept with her on every night off you had. You went all the way together – "

"We were _drunk!"_

The Arume bureaucrat wagged a finger. "Don't they say alcohol brings out the truths we try to hide? I'm not saying you should jump on her at the very next encounter – just give her a kiss and let things go from there... I know she's already sympathetic, so what have you got to lose?"

It was alarmingly hard to think of a comeback when she put it that way. Azanael was relieved of her chance to respond by a despairing cry from the right side: "They're breaking through!"

It was met by a joyous shout from the left: "They're here!"

* * *

Kang had to admit that she was impressed by the gosta. After only a few days' training, they displayed a remarkable grasp of fire-and-move tactics and handled their equipment without fumbling or flinching. She suspected credit was owed to Keiko for the former skills and to Schuhart for the latter. She felt a new respect for the giantess advancing up the far side of the street, leading a squad populated by Errol Darwin, a gosta Bren operator and assistant, and two regulars. Her own group, made up of Karan, the other Bren pair and the last regular couple, watched from the shadows and waited for the enemy to appear.

"Eleven o'clock!" Keiko's warning preceded a series of crashing and cracking noises as a renegade hovercraft cut the corner at the intersection ahead. The colonel didn't have to give Karan a verbal order before he reacted to the threat. His rifle, a Hungarian beast loaded with 14.5mm exploding shells, slapped her eardrums twice: one shot for the pilot, one shot for the gunner. The hovercraft halted, bouncing a little when bits of the house it had plowed through began to fall. Kang kept the orange reticule of her carbine's sight centered on the upper hatch, but nothing emerged. Keiko also watched for a few moments, then flashed a hand signal – _clear._

The Chinese soldier made a signal of her own and left her cover. She sprinted towards a sturdy-looking doorway and occupied it, bracing the M4's handguard against the edge of the frame as she resumed overwatch. The others followed singly or by twos, lingering just long enough to pack up. Judging by the sounds of ongoing battle, Schuhart's half of the strike force was making greater progress despite heavier opposition. Maybe that was why she wasn't dodging bullets or lasers or whatever right now.

* * *

"Sauer, cover the ground level! Harrington, watch the roof! Richardson, third-floor window, fifth from the left!"

The gosta had anticipated her cue. She extracted an Arume hand grenade from the pouch grudgingly supplied by Spiegel prior to departure, pulled out the arming ring at the top of the cylindrical body and twisted it to align the index marks for the shortest fuze time. Taking care not to touch the pressure-sensitive arming membrane in the recessed end cap, she then turned the explosive upside down and pushed it into the muzzle of the stubby launcher clamped to the rifle's nose. Careful aim and a blank cartridge did the rest of the work. The result was gratifying: an oblong section of wall was blown out completely, falling to the sidewalk in a shower of pulverized plaster.

"Good shot," Schuhart commended her. "You okay over there, Krieghoff?"

There was a walloping _boom_ before that gosta replied. "I think I got one!"

"That's right," Phil crooned, adding another body to his already high count. "All aboard the _happy_ train."

"Stopping at Shangri-La, Idiotsk, Boltford-on-Middlingshire and Podunkshaven," Schuhart supplemented dryly between machine gun bursts. "Captain, your impression of a fire hydrant isn't convincing me."

Isobael cast a hateful look at him as she abandoned her vantage point and crawled behind the gray sedan he was using for cover, but said nothing. Richardson had a feeling that it didn't really matter, not while the renegades were bottled up so thoroughly. "Uncle Roland, where should – "

She was cut off by an explosion somewhere to the left. _"Fuck!"_ Errol bellowed indignantly. "Get back 'ere, yah leso hoons!"

"Oh _no,"_ his twin intoned. "Someone ate _all_ the brekky."

The culprit was quickly revealed when a hovercraft missed the turn at the next junction, crashed into a shop's front door and reversed with difficulty. It seemed to take the crew a few moments to realize the path to safety did not lie unsecured. Richardson plunged a hand into her bag, searching for a bulb-headed shaped charge, but Schuhart motioned for her to hold fire. "Phil, _perform the best song in the world!"_

"Roight." The Australian set his rifle down, rose to his feet and loudly cleared his throat. Taking a second to compose himself, he launched into an energetic dance. "We're no strangers to looooove... You know the rules – and so do Iiiii... A full commitment's what I'm thinkin' of... You wouldn't get this from any other guyyyyy!"

Richardson stared. What sort of tactic was this? Looking from side to side, she saw that Isobael and the gosta were equally nonplussed, while Uncle Roland seemed to find the other man's antics amusing. "Sauer," she hissed, "is this what they call 'psychological warfare'?"

"I don't know..."

"...Iiiii just wanna tell you how I'm feeling... Gotta make you understaaand..."

As Phil danced and sang, appearing wholly oblivious to the machine of war sitting before him, Schuhart's phone lit up. "Yeah... What? Now? If you say so... No, we just arrived... Yeah, that's fine. 'Bye." Catching Richardson's eye, he shook his head. "Daebaril went over our heads and made a deal with the renegades... It ends not with a bang, but a whimper."

"...Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down, never gonna run around and desert you..."

* * *

"So you're an arms dealer?"

"Yup."

"American?"

"Used to be."

"What are you now?"

"Grumpy."

Azanael flinched a little. Even if she were correct in keeping the details of her conversation with Kataphel to herself for the time being, she probably should have hinted to Elaqebil that it was best not to get too close to their rescuers... Not that her chubby friend was supposed to be hanging out with them anyway: Elaqebil had insisted that she could get to the landing craft on her own if only someone would give her a crutch, and promptly forgotten the first part of that statement as soon as the second part was granted.

"Everything all roight?"

Now one of them wanted to talk to _her_ – even worse, it was the fair man with the funny accent who'd been singing and dancing when the battle ended. "I'm fine," she said quickly, hoping he'd leave her be so she could corral Elaqebil and get out of this insane place. "I just wanted to make sure I haven't forgotten anything."

"Gotcha."

The shapely Arume's difficulty in interacting with males surged to the surface. "Sorry for all the trouble," she said at length, having exhausted the selection of places she could pretend to search for misplaced belongings. Only after the words had left her mouth did she realize how pathetic they sounded.

The forime didn't appear to care. "No worries, mate. All in a day's work." He offered a smile. "I'm Phil."

"...Azanael."

"Noice name. Where yah from?"

"New Zealand." The native name of her homeland wouldn't mean anything to him, which was a pity because it was far more poetic.

"A Kiwi!" The man's aura of friendliness intensified. "Got yer own Cape Reinga, eh?"

"Yes..." Memories, happy memories for once, washed over her: hiking along a long dirt path, watching the sunset over the endless waters beyond land's end, lying intertwined with Onomil beside the place where two seas commingled in a grand metaphor of their own union.

"Always wanted to see it fer meself," Phil confided. "Me brother got some piccies afore the sea level rose an' buggered it, but that's just bodgy."

"I understand." _Maybe._ "It's like that in the second layer as well."

"What a beaut, an' now it's gone." Phil shook his head sadly. "Shame, innit?"

Azanael was nodding in agreement when Kataphel walked in. "There you are," she said. "The last transport is loaded. We'd better be going."

"Hooroo, then," said the extrovert. "Noice to see yer still aloive, Kate."

Azanael couldn't help but notice the knowing look Phil threw at Kataphel and the way the engineer tensed in response. Quickly hustling out the door, she found Elaqebil still chatting with the man in the badly dented helmet. His back was turned, reminding her that she'd never gotten a good look at his face – and that she didn't really want one. "Right now our biggest competitor," he was saying, "is the United States, no question. Russia, France and Germany are also big players... China was one until a few days ago, and I doubt it'll be long before it bounces back. Governments charge less, even nothing at all, but they attach strings and take sides. That's where private-sector resellers like us come in."

"So private dealers don't align with any faction in a conflict?"

"It varies... Our main rival, for instance, is a guy named Omar bin Salaad." The man pronounced the name with obvious dislike. "He can afford to be choosy because he runs his business from a very big yacht and has a finger in every pie between Madrid and Riyadh. We're just a barrels-and-bullets outfit with a couple of struggling PMCs tacked on, so we don't have that luxury."

_Now or never,_ Azanael thought. "Elaqebil? Sorry to interrupt, but you're holding up the shuttle."

"Oops." Her friend offered a chagrined look. "I guess I have to go... Thanks for your time, Mister Schuhart."

"Not at all," the other replied affably. "Thanks for listening."

Elaqebil turned herself about and looked at Azanael expectantly. "Well, are you coming?"

"I'll be right there," the pilot answered evasively, changing from English to the comparative privacy of Arumic. "You go ahead."

"Humph." The superintendent set off with a pout, though Azanael knew it wouldn't last long. "You could have let me talk to him a little longer..."

Rolling her eyes, Azanael waited quietly until Kataphel emerged onto the street. "Let's go," the latter said shortly. "I was just tidying up."

"Sorry," the pilot responded automatically, following close behind. "Should I have not spoken to him?"

"Who, Phil Darwin?" The commando shook her head. "He's harmless... It was your friend I was worried about."

"That man was the leader?"

Kataphel nodded. "I was afraid she might rub him the wrong way."

Azanael moved to a flanking pace as the pair turned at the next corner. "Did you speak to him?"

"Just briefly. He asked if I wanted to trade my BAR for something newer."

"Ah... So what happens now?"

"I can't really say," the engineer admitted. "Even though we didn't lose anyone, we'll be out of action until the wounded recover... The aftermath of this farce will be dumped in Renaril's lap while the surviving renegades get off lightly, I'm certain."

"I expect so," said the pilot grimly. "Kataphel, _why?_ Why is this happening?"

"You have to ask?" There was a sardonic laugh. "Isn't it obvious? We Arume have gotten greedy, overextended ourselves. We're trying to expand our empire without securing the colonies we already have. We don't have the strength to conquer this world or the know-how to cheat for it... There's a forime proverb which says those who don't learn from the past are condemned to repeat it." Kataphel's voice had become bitterly passionate. "It's the truth. Mariel understood that, but she's become impotent. Maybe Ekaril realized it as well."

"Commander Ekaril did?"

"I think so." They were catching up to Elaqebil now, and Kataphel lowered her voice accordingly. "I never knew her, so I can't say for sure."

This might be the last chance, Azanael realized, to ask what she couldn't speak of to anyone outside her adopted family. "Do you know anything about... about Mari?"

"I do," said the sapper. "All I can tell you now is that Wakatake and Sugawara are alive and well." She walked faster and faster, until Azanael was practically jogging to keep up. "For your own sake, don't go digging."

* * *

"Uncle Roland..?"

"No luck." Schuhart sounded disgusted. "It looks like Daebaril is the one pushing this, with Spiegel following along, but Renaril's not going to cut us any slack for your sakes."

Richardson had realized something was wrong when she and all the other gosta were quietly but inescapably herded together. The Arume and their collaborators hadn't found the courage to actually disarm the girls, but they had kept them encircled and carefully watched. Schuhart had arrived not long after the last of the transports flew away – the only cloud in the orange sky was the one over his head. "What about Colonel Kang?" she asked plaintively.

"The good colonel said I should know better than to leave unexploded ordnance lying about." The man's lip curled. "Not her exact words, but you get the idea."

Looking past him, Richardson could see Kang standing at the edge of the parking lot together with Spiegel, Isobael and a few others. The Chinese woman turned away when the gosta tried to meet her eyes.

"It's not fair," Astra declared. "We tried our hardest. We didn't do bad things. Why do we have to die?"

"It's not about you." Schuhart raised his voice a little, perhaps for the benefit of the onlookers. "The sky eyes are afraid of what would happen if your success became common knowledge... So they waited until we'd finished the heavy lifting for them and then sprang this little ultimatum on us: accept the final solution to the gosta question, or else the whole place burns faster than I can say _Achtung – Flammenwerfer!"_

Richardson hadn't feared death in battle or shied away from performing her duties under fire, but the knowledge that she and her sisters were expected to placidly accept their own termination was too poor a reward. "How could you!?" she shouted at Kang. "How could you stand there and let them do this!?"

"It's too late." Harrington's arms slid around her from behind, body pressing against body. "She won't listen." The sharpshooter lifted her face. "Uncle Roland, you said you looked out for your own crew... Can you abandon us without regret?"

"No." The cyclops watched as Spiegel's staff aide drew near, carrying a flat box. "Whatever happens, I want you to know that I'm very proud of you all." He reached for his radio, prompting the collaborator guards to stiffen. "Cool it," the arms dealer growled. "I gotta call my crew and tell 'em not to worry when they hear the shots."

"Let him," Isobael advised. "We don't want any complications."

"Smartest thing you've said all day," Schuhart muttered caustically. "All units: Rule Three-Oh-Three, Unthinkable, oh-eight-hundred... Five minute fuze. Out." He put the transceiver away and zeroed in on the adjutant as she took out a compact white pistol. "What's that?"

"Tranquilizer," was the matter-of-fact reply.

"Does it only affect them? If not, watch where the hell you're pointing it." While the faintly irritated Arume loaded the launcher, he keenly regarded the officers. "Colonel, did you ever see _A Better Tomorrow Part Two_?"

"A long time ago," Kang confirmed warily.

Schuhart nodded. "Thought so... There was a scene where Chow Yun-Fat loads up a SPAS-Twelve right before some thugs attack him. Do you remember what he said?"

"No."

"You quoted it once, back in the good old days... He said – " There was a dull _whock_ as Schuhart smashed the edge of his hand into the adjutant's neck, then a hard _pschhht_ as a dart from the commandeered launcher penetrated Kang's skin. " – FUCK YOOOUUUUUUU!"

Harrington pushed herself forward, bringing Richardson down with her. Looking up, the latter saw Uncle Roland spin around. The Hi-Powers in his hands bucked, working parts slamming back and forth as he poured condensed fury onto those guarding the gosta. Releasing them the instant they ran empty, he seized another pistol and turned away. Spiegel went down, then another collaborator and then Isobael. Only Kang was left standing, staring numbly as the scene unfolded.

"Come on!" Sauer yelled as she rolled onto her stomach and sighted in on the enemy troops now coming to investigate. "Let's help Uncle Roland!"

Richardson was dumbfounded. Had their benefactor changed his mind at the last moment, or was his acquiescence to the Arume demands a deception from the start? She started to reach for her submachine gun, but remembered that it was completely depleted. Harrington came to the rescue by pressing a stack of charger clips into her hand: they were meant as an emergency reserve for herself and for Phil, but they would also fit Richardson's modified Mauser. Grabbing the rifle from its resting place, the gosta hastily set about unclamping the mounted grenade launcher.

The three machine guns roared for a short time, interspersed with singular rifle shots, before a strange quiet fell. Ramming her bolt closed on a live cartridge, Richardson adopted a kneeling stance and searched for a target. "What happened? Was that all of them?"

"All that I could see," Sauer returned. "Krag?"

"Nothing moving here."

"Johnson?"

"The same."

"All right... Let's get out of the open." Sauer pointed to the church which faced the west side of the parking lot. "That building should be adequate."

"What about her?" Mannlicher asked, indicating Kang.

"Uncle Roland must have left her alive for a reason," Sauer declared. "Let's make her our prisoner."

Support for this motion was plainly unanimous. As the gosta prepared to claim their captive, however, they became aware of new sounds of battle in the distance. "Wow," Rubin breathed. "Everyone is fighting back!"

"Comrades!" Schuhart's voice rang out nearer to the girls. "What saved us when we were betrayed in Old Tokyo?"

The reply came from several directions, though Richardson could distinguish only Keiko's voice with certainty. _"We were saved by Rule Three-Oh-Three!"_

"What did we do with those who betrayed us?"

_"We got 'em and shot 'em under Rule Three-Oh-Three!"_

"What do we invoke when we are imperiled by perfidy, treachery or treason?"

_"We invoke Rule Three-Oh-Three!"_

Richardson marched up to Kang and took aim at her heart. "Surrender," she ordered coldly.


	20. Role Reversal

_Part 19: Role Reversal_

Long trails of smoke hung over the ruined city in the twilight, pitilessly emphasizing the havoc wrought. Here and there little flickers of light marked the resting places of destroyed vehicles. The two destroyers were rafted side-by-side in the harbor to the south, one of them visibly listing to starboard. The landing ship lay with its bow ramp ashore, the procession of tanks having given way to a trickle of light trucks, wagons and even hand-pushed carts. Somewhere out to sea, the submarine lurked unseen.

* * *

Ferenil hit the ground with a wet smack, pale blood seeping out of her torso as she spiraled down into infinite nothingness. There was a brisk _shrick-shack_ and a muted tapping as her reaper's boots receded, leaving one more Arume to die alone in a foreign world. _Mother,_ she thought, _sisters... will I see you across the river?_

The last thing she heard was that man's voice, quietly singing as he stalked her comrades: "I can saw – a woman in two... But you won't wanna look – in the box when I'm through! I can make love – disappear... For my next trick I'll need a volunteer..."

_Kaboomph!_

_Shrick-shack!_

* * *

"Incoming call," Eripol announced tersely, a drop of sweat trickling down the bridge of her nose. "Not Schuhart, but it's another satellite phone."

Renaril answered it herself. "Hello?"

_"Good evening."_ The speaker was a man she didn't recognize. _"Is that Group Commander Renaril?"_

"Who are you?"

_"A bearer of unpleasant news,"_ the stranger replied grimly. _"As a representative of the Eto Delo group, it is my distasteful duty to inform you that Rule Three-Oh-Three has been declared and remains in effect until oh-eight-hundred hours tomorrow. Arume forces within the Hong Kong zone of operation are subject to neutralization by any necessary degree of force."_

"Rule _what?_ I don't understand!"

_"So I surmised. Briefly, Rule Three-Oh-Three is an emergency defensive measure invoked when employees of the organization have been attacked by an ostensibly friendly power, or are in imminent danger of being attacked."_

"What!?" Renaril was aghast. "We had no intention of betraying you!"

_"Schuhart appears to think otherwise, and I can assure you that he does not issue such commands lightly."_

"This is a mistake," the Arume insisted. "This _must_ be a mistake... Please, I'm sure we can work out – "

The caller cut her off. _"I'm not authorized to negotiate,"_ he informed her brusquely. _"If you want to reduce casualties, your most viable option is to advise your troops to surrender immediately."_

"How do I know you won't kill them anyway!?"

_"It might happen,"_ the man admitted, _"but it would be detrimental to business, so I expect not... In the meantime, I have a growing mountain of paperwork to climb. Goodbye."_

* * *

"It's getting quieter out there."

"You're right." Sauer edged her way between two pews until she came to Krag's defensive position on the north wall. "Do you see any movement?"

The other gosta aligned her eye with the hole in the stained-glass window not already occupied by a Bren barrel, peering out into the darkness intently. "Nothing."

"Johnson?"

"Same here," the other gunner called softly from the south side.

"All right," Sauer muttered, moving back to the center aisle. "Maintain your watch... Astra, Krieghoff, Mannlicher, you're up."

That meant Richardson, Rubin and Harrington were off duty for a while, and the first of the trio was especially gratified by the announcement. Releasing her grasp on the .30 caliber, she collected her gear and left Krieghoff to cover the main door of the church. _Such a strange place,_ she thought as she walked up the middle. _How do forime derive comfort from celebrations of a man being nailed to a piece of wood?_ Lowering her eyes from the carved effigy on the wall ahead, faintly gleaming in the dim light of the candles placed all around the cavernous space, she saw Colonel Kang still sitting on the step at the foot of the altar. The gosta's face scrunched into a frown as she strode towards the prisoner.

Kang slowly looked up as she drew close, but kept her own meek silence. "Why did you do it?" Richardson asked bitterly. "I thought you were our ally." Her voice rose a notch. "I thought you were a good person! Why did you side with the Arume?"

The Chinese woman looked away. "I – "

Richardson's voice plunged to a pained whisper. "I _trusted_ you."

"..."

"Who is she?" The gosta stooped so that she and her opposite were face to face. "Who is the _good person_ you found up there?" When Kang tried to avert her gaze a second time, Richardson reached up and turned her face back. "Who marked you?"

"What..?"

"Her scent," Richardson murmured. "It's all over you."

Kang blinked a few times, trying to think through the fogginess induced by the drug in her body. "I don't understand..."

"An Arume wants you, an Arume you've been near. Is it Renaril?" The girl closed the remaining distance between the two, straddling Kang's thighs and placing her hands on the officer's shoulders. "It _is_ her, isn't it? You abandoned us for her."

"No..." The colonel tried to push Richardson off without success. "No..!"

"You're afraid," the gosta whispered, blue eyes staring into brown. "Why?"

* * *

_Boom-boom-boom-boom!_

"Aaaaaargh..!"

_Boom-boom!_

_Beep-beep-beep-beep! Beep-beep-beep – bip!_

"Yeah?"

_"Schuhart, you..! You can't collect the money after this!"_

"You think I'd _take_ your money after the shit you pulled?" _Boom-boom!_ "The lives of my employees are not for sale!"

_"W-what are you doing!?"_

"Taking out the trash – some of your grunts decided to ignore that last order."

_"Wha..? No, stop! Don't kill them!"_

"Tough shit." _Boom!_ "We tried doing things your way and you blew it."

_"You – you... There will be consequences if you don't stop!"_

"Damn right there'll be consequences." _Boom-boom-boom-boom-boom!_ "You sky eyes aren't very good at thinking about consequences, are you?"

_"We haven't used even a fraction of our power! If you keep doing this, there's no way you'll be able to stand against us!"_

"Then do it again! DO IT AGAIN! I DARE YOU, I _DOUBLE_-DARE YOU, MOTHERFUCKER, ESCALATE THE CONFLICT ONE MORE DOGDAMN TIME!" _Schick... Click... Shachack!_ "You're pathetic, Renaril. You and your whole race... Without your Wunderwaffen and your shock-and-awe, you're a bunch of arrogant kids with more libido than smarts. I've seen your own bio-bombs beat you using guns our generals abandoned sixty years ago, and all you can do about it is cry and make impotent threats. We're shown your weakness to the whole world, so good luck conquering us now!"

_"That's not true..!"_

"Oh yes it is. It won't matter if you kill us: we'll just become tomorrow's martyrs, the shades of gray in our lives whitewashed to oblivion. The politicians will build altars on which to invoke our sanitized legacy, and they'll be singing our undeserved praise the day they nuke your homeworld down to bedrock... You'll go down in history as a spineless incompetent who let tens of thousands of innocent people be killed, maimed or driven from their homes, and Colonel Kang will be remembered as a deviant and a traitor."

_"What do I have to do?"_

"Gah..!"

_"Please, you must help me! Maybe you're right about me, but I beg of you – if there's any mercy in you, don't let it end like that!"_

"...Tell me one thing, Group Commander. Have you ever loved someone?"

_"Well, um... I do have someone I like."_

"Good enough. You'd be unhappy if someone else took her away from you, wouldn't you?"

_"Of course I would."_

"And if that someone came to you at another time and begged for your help, would you grant it?"

_"..."_

"I'm not going to help you because you're the best option or because I feel sorry for you. I'm going to help you because it's what _she_ would have wanted me to do. Do you understand?"

_"I think so."_

"Good. For now, just forget about Hong Kong. We'll take care of things here. _You_ need to get a handle on what's happening up in Beijing, and fast. Tomorrow you can come down and pick up the colonel and whoever else is left... Nine AM is probably a good time. After that, you're going to have to be a model governor whether you're ready or not."

_"I'll do my best, I promise."_

"You'd better. Good luck, and good night."

_Bip!_

"Don't let us get sick, don't let us get old, don't let us get stupid, all right?" _Click._ "Just make us be brave, and make us play nice, and let us be together tonight..."

* * *

"Mmmmmmph!" Kang pulled herself free of Richardson's lips with a gasp. "What are you – !?"

"Renaril wants to do this with you." There was no longer any doubt in the girl's mind about that Arume's intentions. "You would do it with a person you liked."

"If I had..." The expression of sorrow which came over the soldier's features startled her. "I could have..."

"Could have done what?" Richardson prompted curiously. "Is there someone else?"

A lone tear formed at the corner of the woman's eye and ran down her cheek. "She didn't... want me."

"But if she had," Richardson pressed softly, "wouldn't you want to kiss her?"

"Of course..."

"Then why should we not be allowed to do the same?" The gosta stared into Kang's eyes, searching for some glimmer of comprehension. "Why would you deny that we also have these feelings?"

The colonel averted her face again. "You... can't understand."

"But I _want_ to understand," Richardson insisted. "Uncle Roland said you should be admired, but now you hurt him and us..."

"Schuhart said that?"

"He told us you have something you believe in," the girl confirmed.

Sorrow was replaced by shame. "He... speaks too well of me..."

"Uncle Roland wouldn't – "

The gentle confrontation was interrupted by Johnson. "Someone is coming."

Sauer was beside her in moments, scooping up the Colt carbine taken from Kang as she crossed the Church. "How many?" she queried tersely.

"Just one," the gunner replied. "A large forime."

"Issue a warning."

The girl behind the Bren sighted in on the intruder. "Halt!" she barked. "This place is forbidden!"

"Easy, Johnson." The voice outside was Keiko's. "You okay?"

"Yes," Johnson called happily, "we're all right." She looked to Sauer. "Shouldn't we let her in?"

"That's right." The girls' acting leader waved towards the door at the east end. "Borchardt, Carcano, open it up!"

Those called upon scrambled to comply, grunting in unison as they dragged the heavy wooden halves of the entrance to each side. Richardson climbed off Kang's lap and was just starting to run down the aisle when Keiko walked inside. Her appearance set off an alarm bell in the gosta's mind: the giantess had shed her vest, shirt and equipment harness, leaving naked skin above the waist save for a flimsy sports bra. Her boots and fatigue pants were spattered with the dried blood of Arume and forime, their shades mixed indiscriminately. The silver .44 and three massive magazines were tucked into her belt, while her powerful arms lazily cradled what seemed to be an MG42 in mottled brown camouflage paint. The mounting strut under its centerline was bent as if it had been violently wrenched from a fixed position.

It took a moment for Richardson to find her voice. "Pack leader..?"

"Yo." Keiko's voice was low and throaty, her eyes clouded. "New toy for you, Sauer," she said casually, dropping the machine gun onto a pew. She looked right past Richardson as she approached, her gaze fixing on Kang. "I've been looking for you," the pack leader drawled.

The Chinese prisoner didn't react positively. "What... were you doing?"

"I was having fun, what else?" The big woman's lip curled mockingly. "Watching the little ones beg on their knees, offering all they had... It got boring after a while, though, even when I tried to mix things up."

"You abused them."

Keiko laughed brazenly at the euphemism. "I gave 'em what they deserved, that's all." She bent over Kang and plucked the dart from her flesh. _"You,_ on the other hand..."

"...What?"

Keiko didn't answer. Flicking the dart aside, she reached into a back pocket and produced an injector like the ones she'd used to revive Richardson, Harrington and Sauer after the tunnel battle. After jabbing it into the junction of Kang's neck and shoulder, she discarded that as well. "Poor Roland," she sneered, turning her back on Kang. "He can't rely on you after this."

"I know."

"That's all you have to say, after he put his ass on the line for you?" The giantess shook her head. "If you weren't so damn sexy, I'd just kill you."

"I'm not – "

"Oh, you _are."_ Keiko languidly ran her tongue over her lips. "I heard the tigress of Taiyuan couldn't be tamed." She rolled her shoulders, hard muscles shifting. "Let's see if it's true."

Kang grimaced at the nickname. "What are you talking about?"

"Ancient customs of war," the other woman declared. "I bet the tigress will purr like a kitten when I'm done."

The colonel's eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't..!"

"Yeah?" Keiko stretched her arms. "I'm hornier than a rabbit right now. Stop me if you can."

Richardson looked from one to the other with rising fear. The situation seemed liable to explode at any moment: glancing about, she found that her siblings appeared to share this view. _What should we do?_ she thought frantically. _How can she say such things?_

"Well?" Keiko goaded when her target kept silent. "The Kang Li dear cousin Roland talked about wasn't someone who'd take this lying down... Or are you just going to close your eyes and think of that little bitch on high?"

When Kang moved, she moved _fast._ Richardson was cognizant only of a frustrated shriek and a blur as the Chinese woman whipped past her. She closed her eyes, anticipating that something horrible would happen when that mass of fury slammed into Keiko's back.

_Whump!_

The gosta gingerly opened one eye in time to see Kang tumbling down the aisle, Keiko standing in the same place. "Oh, that's right," said the latter airily. "Roland _did_ mention that you have terrible self-control."

"Shut up." Kang bared her teeth, her whole body quivering. _"Shut up!"_

"Ooooh." The giantess placed her hands on her broad hips. "Are you going to show me that awesome Wing Chun again?"

Kang pushed herself onto her feet, her breathing harsh and shallow. "It'll be the last... thing you ever see!"

She charged at her tormentor a second time, and now Richardson saw it clearly: Keiko had not been fighting at her full strength when these two clashed earlier in the day. She blocked the soldier's attacks with seemingly insignificant effort, but made no strikes of her own until Kang whipped an arm towards her throat. The biggest woman seized her opponent by the wrist and threw her to the floor, stunning the colonel for a few vital instants. In a flash Keiko peeled off her bra, flung it behind herself and fell upon her prey, bridging Kang's legs with her own as she pinned her victim's wrists above her head. "You're good," she cooed, now face to face with the woman trapped beneath her, "really good... But you can't beat me at rukopashka."

Kang's reply was to slam a knee into her captor's groin, but the action failed to free her: Keiko let out a brief grunt as she clamped her thighs around the raised leg and began to make a grinding motion with her pelvis. As the gosta looked on, captivated by the spectacle, her back arched until she was nearly pressing her bared upper body against Kang's. "Nnn... Nnnngh... Eargh... _Eyaaaaaaaaah..!"_

Richardson shivered as Keiko threw her head back, giving voice to a piercing cry. It trailed off into ragged panting after several seconds. The giantess changed her grasp, freeing one hand. "Dammit," she groaned, feeling between her thighs once her grip on Kang's leg was loosened. "Soaked right through..."

"Are you finished?" Kang's mood wasn't immediately discernible from her voice, but Richardson thought she seemed strangely calm given her predicament. Was the colonel feigning weakness until she could break loose, like Uncle Roland had done to save the gosta?

"Fuck no." Keiko's unoccupied hand slid under the back of Kang's neck, pulling her up into a kiss. "Mmmmm..!"

This act made Richardson uneasy to a degree the pack leader's climax had not: when she kissed the prisoner, it had been impulsive and clumsy – yet wholly sincere. The greedy, insensitive contact she witnessed now was nothing like that. "Stop," she whispered. "Stop..!"

Either Keiko could not hear, or would not hear. Her fingers trailed down the side of Kang's neck and then over her chest, deftly undoing the safety pin and opening the ragged shirt. "Your turn," she murmured as the clasp of the Chinese woman's bra came unfastened. "Don't disappoint me, hm?" Kang's eyes were closed, her immobilized hands clenched into trembling fists as the marauder reached her waist. Belt, button and zipper parted in turn before Keiko's fingers pushed into the waistband of the plain underwear underneath. A sudden, convulsive motion yanked everything down nearly to knee level: Richardson caught a momentary glimpse of a dark patch of carelessly trimmed hair before the giantess covered the exposed body with her own, forcing another kiss upon her victim.

_"Stop!"_

This time Richardson got the woman's attention. "Stop," she repeated. "Please don't touch her any more!"

"You don't like this?" Keiko's voice dripped with menacing sweetness. "Or would you rather do it yourself?"

"No," the gosta replied firmly. "Even if Colonel Kang betrayed us, even if she is a bad person, you mustn't do this against her will."

"I agree," Sauer declared. "This isn't what Uncle Roland would want, so... if you want to feel good, please let us care for you instead!"

"That's very noble of you," Keiko laughed as her hand slipped up over Kang's breast, strong fingers kneading the soft mound, "but you're too young for these adult things."

"That isn't important." Richardson was surprised to find the speaker was Astra, the smallest and most timid of her sisters. "Please consider what Uncle Roland – "

"Screw him," the big woman snorted. "What's he gonna say?"

"I'm _not_ going to say 'YES, DO IIIIIIIT!'"

All eyes jumped to the door. Schuhart stood there, cradling the slender figure of an Arume in his arms. His clothes were even more blood-spattered than Keiko's and he looked much the worse for wear. As his charge weakly turned her face towards the onlookers, Richardson recognized her: Ferenil, the pilot of Isobael's hovercraft during the tunnel battle. The middle of her body was clumsily wound with bandages and her grip on life was fading fast.

"AAAI-YAAAI-YAAAAAAA!" Phil Darwin burst in behind Schuhart, a flowerpot perched on his head and a pair of pinstriped boxer shorts dangling from the tip of his bayonet. "SURRENDER DOROTHY!"

In the stunned silence which followed, a large cardboard box scooted through the doorway, weaved between the two men and charged up the aisle, only to snag a corner on the end of a pew. It disintegrated, revealing Errol Darwin crouching in a plaid kilt, welder's goggles and snorkel. With his cover in tatters, he jumped to attention and saluted Schuhart. "Distraction complete, _sah!"_

"Thanks," the arms dealer muttered irritably. "KK, get _up."_

"Fuck you." Keiko kissed Kang again, despite the latter's squirming.

"Figures." Schuhart shifted Ferenil so that she rested in the crook of one arm. "Cue Plan B."

He started to reach for the shotgun strapped to his leg. Keiko rocked back onto one foot, then catapulted herself down the channel between the long benches. Richardson ducked, hearing a dull _boomph_ and a loud _whap!_ "Yeeooooow!" the giantess howled. "You _bastard!"_

"Sorry," said Schuhart, not sounding sorry at all. Richardson raised her head in time to see him tip the Remington vertical and release his grasp, catching it by the fore-end as it fell. "You know I hate to do this," he added, tucking the plastic pistol grip into his armpit, "but you'll regret it in the morning if I don't." _Shrick – shack!_

"Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii..!" Ferenil went stiff at the mechanical noise, wide eyes staring blankly at the far wall. Her reaction earned a chagrined look from her bearer, who quickly deposited her on the closest pew.

"Hold it!" Karan rushed into the church, brandishing a long-barreled automatic rifle with a flashlight duct-taped to the side of its triangular wooden handguard. He did a double-take when he saw Keiko and Kang. "What's going on here?"

"I don't want to know," Schuhart replied evenly, "and you shouldn't either... Was there a holdup?"

"No," said the Indian. "I simply couldn't find my way at first." He unclipped one of the two large bandoleers which hung across his chest and held it out. "I ran into Singh on the way here – he gave me the One-A and some ammunition for you."

"Much obliged." Schuhart put the shotgun's safety on and holstered it. "What'd you do with the Gepard?"

"I left it with Freebooter. He said he knew how to use it."

"Considering where he came from, he'd _better_ know how." Schuhart took an empty rifle magazine out of his vest and started loading rounds into the top of the flat rectangle. "Is Daemon expecting any trouble?"

"Nothing in particular."

"Good. Do me a favor and call in a Hip, would you? That kid ain't gonna make it without help."

Karan surveyed Ferenil's weak state with a wince. "Friendly fire?"

"Nah," said the one-eyed man absently. "I nailed her before the surrender order was passed down. She was still alive when I came back."

"Ah..." The Indian retreated without further comment.

"I hate those beanbags." Keiko stood up, rubbing the front of her thigh. Her demeanor was comparatively placid now. "Gonna have a huge bruise."

"You _could_ have settled for just the hangover," her cousin needled. "And fix your top, would you?"

"Yeah, yeah..." Keiko looked around for the sports bra, neglecting to cover herself all the while. Webley recovered the garment after a few moments of searching and brought it forward. "Thanks," the muscular woman grunted, pulling it on. She threw one last, longing glance at Kang, then limped down the aisle and out into the night.

Schuhart let out a sigh of relief. "That could have gone worse," he opined, looking to either side. "Is everyone _else_ okay?"

"No losses or wounds," Sauer reported.

"You kids get all the luck," the man quipped wanly. He turned his attention to Kang as she – having corrected her clothes while group focus was elsewhere in the room – stood up. "With a little to spare for _you,_ even."

The colonel didn't look at him. "...Why did you stop her?"

"Why shouldn't I have stopped her?" Schuhart shook his head. "She isn't normal, Colonel. When she gets too much of a combat high, it hotwires her libido... Indulging her doesn't make it any better." He limped closer to her. "If you need to blame someone, blame me for pushing her too far."

Kang lifted her face. "I'm the one who should be sorry – "

"Damned right you are," said Schuhart bluntly. "You're getting off lightly because you're an irreplaceable asset, understand?"

"You intend to use me as leverage against Renaril."

"I thought about it," the one-eyed man admitted, "but Miss Zheng would put the hurt on me for sure." He swung the rifle off his back and latched a refilled magazine into it. "You'll be miserable enough before long, anyway. The PRC has ceased to be."

"What..?"

"We're short on exact details, but it's a mess all around: army units in Beijing are shelling the Zhongnanhai and the Forbidden City, an Islamic republic has been proclaimed in Xinjiang, and in Shanxi some general has declared martial law. Last I heard, there was total anarchy in parts of Heilongjiang and Jilin." _Shachack!_ "So you'd better pull yourself together."

When Kang responded, she did so in a numb murmur. "What would you have me do?"

"Stick to the plan, more or less... You've frittered away the years waiting for a political messiah to appear – how about you show some initiative and be one yourself?"

"I – I can't..."

"No choice," said Schuhart gravely, re-slinging his weapon. "No choice for any of us." He glanced behind himself as the beating of helicopter rotors rose far away. "We're moving out, people – pack your gear and douse those candles."

Richardson was ready to leave in seconds. Since others were already extinguishing the myriad points of light, she gravitated towards her patron as he took out a compact flashlight, switched it on and clipped it to his vest. "Uncle Roland..."

Lebel got to him first: "Here," she said, holding out a pair of pistols. "You dropped these earlier."

"Thanks." Schuhart tucked away the Hi-Powers and carefully picked up the still-catatonic Ferenil. "You were saying something, Richardson?"

"Um, yes... Is your arm all right?"

"It's not serious," Schuhart grunted, cradling the Arume with deceptive gentleness. "I've been hit by bigger bullets."

Richardson could believe that. She started to close the gap only to bump into someone else in the dark: looking up, she found herself facing Kang. Her first impulse was to push the Chinese female away, but then she remembered their conversation during the afternoon ceasefire and the great troubles which must weigh on the forime's mind. She expected to experience repulsion, even hatred for this woman, but she was instead filled with a great feeling of pity.

"I'm sorry."

Richardson snaked an arm around Kang's waist, slipping her other hand into the gap in the officer's shirt. "I know," she whispered, laying her palm against the adult's warm, smooth belly. "Even a good person can make bad choices." She stared into those brown eyes with all the severity she could project. "Renaril will want to touch you, kiss you, plant her seed in you... If she is also a truly good person, please don't make her sad."

"I'll try."

The accidental tenderness was broken by Sauer. "Uncle Roland, what about Miss Camilla?"

"The docs told me she could have one or two visitors," Schuhart answered, raising his voice proportional to the din outside, "but not everybody at once." He turned this way and that, panning his light over those gathered in the aisle. "Follow me, folks."

As the procession began to move, Richardson felt an arm link with her own. Turning her head, she saw Harrington at her side. "Are you all right?" she asked in soft Arumic.

The sharpshooter nodded. "Yes..."

The gosta smiled for the first time in a long while. "I'm glad." They walked to the helicopter together, waiting patiently while Ferenil was placed on an improvised stretcher and carried aboard. Schuhart stood outside the door until everyone else had entered the fuselage, then abruptly stepped back a pace.

"KNOW THIS," he roared, thrusting a defiant fist towards the sky. "KILLIN' IS MAH BUSINESS, LADIES... AND BUSINESS – IS – GOOD!"


	21. The Lamps are Going Out

_Part 20: The Lamps Are Going Out_

_Guangdong Olympic Stadium_

_Guangzhou, Guangdong Province_

_April 1st, 2016_

"Hello? Hi, Chloe... No, I'm doing fieldwork right now. We _were_ training some officer candidates for the client, but the enemy attacked and it's not really training anymore. What about you? ...Really? That was fast... Uh, tell 'em we can't take any orders until we have more live combat data from _Dear John_ and _Hi There_... By the end of today, probably. I'll call you again when the bullets stop flying – 'bye for now." _Bip!_

"Uncle Roland is truly fearless," Sauer muttered, adjusting her machine gun's sling as the one-eyed man tucked away his satphone and turned to face the thirty terrified trainees huddled along the concrete wall behind him. "But I guess that's good for us."

"I guess," Richardson murmured. She stole a glance to the side, reassuring herself that Harrington was close by. _This time we absolutely can't afford to be separated._

"Okay, listen up!" Schuhart whipped out another map from his seemingly bottomless pocketful. "We're going to cross the road and work our way up the next street, providing cover for the Spugs until they can get a clear line of fire on that enemy post. Keep your eyes open for artillery spotters, sappers and anti-tank crews." One of the women he was addressing started to raise a hand, but Schuhart cut her off. "Yes, that rifle _is_ older than you are. No, you are _not_ guaranteed to come back alive. Yes, I _am_ going in ahead of you... Any _other_ questions?"

If Richardson were to put her back against the wall, she would be facing the newest innovation in their diverse arsenal: the Spug prototypes. The machines' basic shape was identical to that of the Arume hovercrafts Richardson and her sisters had faced in Hong Kong, but the violet highlights were obscured by blotches of drab green and brown. Instead of gaping energy projectors, these vehicles sported the jutting barrels of heavy forime cannon. Theirs was a reassuring presence for the gosta.

"Remember, ladies – a good leader leads from the _front!"_ Schuhart picked up his rifle and stuffed a grenade into the underbarrel launcher. "SCOOPS!"

* * *

_Lion Rock Tunnel – South Entrance_

_New Kowloon, Hong Kong SAR_

_March 18th – Two Weeks Earlier_

"You can't keep doing this," Kang sighed, even as she put her arms around the grief-stricken Arume. "You understand, don't you?"

"I know," Renaril sniffled, turning her face to the side and resting her cheek against the soft swell in the forime's shirt. "I know, but... why does it turn out badly no matter what I do?"

"It's not all your fault," the colonel replied carefully, trying to balance truth with comfort. "The circumstances were beyond your control."

"Nnn..." The alien girl breathed deeply, the scent of her companion calming her. "Colonel?"

"Hm?"

"Why are you so nice to me?"

"Nice?" Kang blinked. "Is this unusual in your culture?"

"No, but..." Renaril shivered, a fresh deluge of tears spilling down her cheeks. "No one... Not even my mother..."

While Kang was yet to become properly acquainted with Senior Counselor Daebaril, her impression so far was one of a highly demanding yet aloof parent. If the impression was correct, it went a long way to explain Renaril's problems. "What about your, er... Your other mother?"

"Never around," the Arume mumbled. "Haven't seen her in months... She's always busy, working on martian terraforming in our home layer."

"I see." Naive, starved for affection, eager to please – it was a pattern Kang had encountered again and again in the old days, yet somehow it'd taken her this long to recognize it in her opposite. She'd definitely been away from the field for too long. "Are you feeling any better?"

Renaril nodded. "Could we... stay here a little longer?"

"If you wish."

* * *

Azanael, in the meantime, was doing her utmost to stay out of trouble. Staying out of trouble, however, left her sitting on a landing strut of her shuttlecraft, enduring a battle against boredom in the hot mid-morning shade. Why was she even here? Not to whisk the group commander away in case of emergency, she figured – the forime were too well armed to pull that off. Maybe someone wanted to keep her out of danger, or simply out of the way. Was it Kataphel and her mysterious comrades?

"G'day!"

The pilot jumped up reflexively. "Geh..!"

"Sorry, mate." Phil Darwin offered an apologetic shrug. "Yer all roight?"

"Fine," Azanael said quickly. "I'm fine."

"Yah don't _look_ foine," the Australian countered. "Sittin' 'ere with nothin' to do." He sat on the pavement in front of her.

_How can I be fine with you sneaking up on me?_ Azanael thought resentfully. "It must be nice, having such a relaxed outlook."

"Relaxed?" said Phil. "That's relative."

"Relative..?"

"Roight. Yah seen much battle?"

The Arume wasn't sure where he was going with this, but she played along. "Not in a long time."

"Okay – yer mates 'ave been gobbin' on about yesterday, how it was a _real battle_ an' such. Now mebbe that wos a real battle fer _them,_ but fer me an' me brother? Call me arsey if yah loike, but that wos _nothin'."_

"So... what would you consider to be a real battle?"

"Well, lessee... How 'bout the toime Roland lost his blinker, _that_ wos a nasty biff... Or way back, when we were keepin' the peace in Liberia under ol' Dingo Breath..."

"Dingo... Breath?"

"Our secret weapon. Smashin' fellow, shame about his teeth."

"Oh." Azanael cautiously sat down. "Mister Darwin, there's something I have to ask."

"Ask away."

"You're one of the forime who were betrayed by Kataphel and her crew when they first came to this layer, aren't you?"

* * *

_Tap-clank-tap-clank-tap-clank..._

Renaril shifted uneasily in Kang's embrace, but kept her eyes closed. "Schuhart's here, isn't he?"

"Yes," the colonel replied, watching the heavy figure limping towards them. "He looks as if he has something to tell us."

"I don't want to see him right now."

"I don't think it can be helped."

Schuhart was going for the modern warrior look today, trading the steel helmet for a baseball cap, sunglasses and a radio headset. He had also swapped his Thompson and the G3 he'd been carrying last night for a Kalashnikov with an underfolding stock and a distinctly Chinese spike bayonet. "A small bit of good luck," he announced. "Your old safe house survived the fighting."

Emphasis on _small,_ in Kang's opinion. "What else?" she prompted, finding it unlikely that the man walked all the way out here just to deliver that news.

"We're still waiting to see which side the elusive General Lin's bread is buttered on, and..." The arms dealer trailed off. "Sorry, am I interrupting something?"

"No." Kang tried to separate herself from Renaril gently, but it took some coaxing to make the Arume let go. "Go on."

"Right... The local Party chief is still missing, but so far Lin is the only one apart from Jiang in Shanxi to overtly mobilize. Like I said, no indication of his alignment. The _Shi Lang_ and its escorts are heading for Hainan, presumably to join up with the PLAN base forces. Fighting in Beijing has died down and local authorities are trying to bring the northeastern provinces under control. In short, the situation's what it has been for the last ten hours – nobody wants to make their move first."

"But that isn't what you came for, is it? You would have just called me."

"Yeah," said Schuhart. "We put together an educational demonstration for the group commander," he explained, nodding towards Renaril. "I came to pick you two up."

"Demonstration?" Renaril echoed suspiciously.

"Don't worry," the man assured her, "this one's free."

Kang also felt wary regarding the proposal. "Demonstration about _what?"_ she demanded.

"Things anyone trying to fight a land war in Asia should know." Schuhart shrugged. "Normally I'd just give her the relevant dossier but our library is, well..."

"Closed," the colonel supplied dryly.

"Closed pending extensive renovation," Schuhart agreed. "So what do you say? It'll only take ten, fifteen minutes at most."

"All right," Renaril sighed. "Where is it?"

"Back in town." The one-eyed man jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "My truck's at the bottom of the exit ramp. You go ahead – I need a word with the good colonel."

It was with obvious reluctance that Renaril left them, throwing a glance laden with revulsion at Schuhart along the way. "She doesn't like you at all," Kang remarked quietly, watching that white ponytail swish as it sank out of view.

"You didn't like me at all either, once upon a time." Schuhart reached behind his back momentarily, producing a Ruger revolver in a nylon belt rig. "I brought this for you," he went on. "Memento of our finest hour and all that."

"It's not mine."

"I didn't see anyone else racing to claim it." The man held the holster out so that Kang could put it on. "And one gun is never enough – that was an early lesson for me."

The Chinese officer passed the belt around her waist and buckled it. Unlike her friend, if she could still call him one, she didn't feel comfortable reminiscing. "How is your arm?"

"The medics said it'll be fine as long as I don't do anything stupid."

_There's a lost cause._ "Where's your cousin?"

"Keeping a low profile." Schuhart cocked his head. "You're not angling for a rematch, are you?"

"No. Is she?"

"Well... She _did_ say something about putting off Round Two until both parties are free of distractions." The munitions marketer scratched his ear. "I guess that means she wants a fight where you aren't enraged and she, um..."

"Won't want to celebrate her victory by violating me?" Kang finished acerbically.

Schuhart winced. "Pretty much," he conceded. "But enough about us. I haven't seen much of you all day – are you all right?"

"Yes."

"I hope so. What's your take on Renaril now?"

"She has a competent _theoretical_ understanding of her role," Kang sighed, "but her lack of self-esteem and her weak emotional discipline constantly overwhelm her."

Schuhart nodded. "Overwhelmed is right. She was clinging to you."

"Indeed." The colonel frowned. "How, precisely, do you intend to educate her?"

"I'm not going to assail the young lady with profanity-laden tirades, make her do pushups or tell her to dig a trench from the fence to lunchtime, if that's what you mean." Schuhart turned around and made tracks for the east exit ramp, motioning for Kang to follow. "But if the distressed damsel can't shape up, you're going to lose more than Hong Kong."

"I know."

"We've been very lucky as it is. If they'd attacked Macau, Shenzhen or Guangzhou..."

Kang couldn't deny the logic of the assessment. High as the casualties were, Hong Kong's population a week ago had been a mere fraction of what it was before Second Impact. "There would have been no second chance."

Renaril was pacing impatiently when they reached Schuhart's truck – the same sky-blue pickup he'd driven before, albeit rather the worse for battle damage. "Don't look at me like that," he admonished when she seemed poised to complain. "I drove it all the way here, didn't I?"

* * *

"Yeah," said Phil without reservation. "'Course, we called her 'Kate' back then. They all had fake names – Kate, Nell, Eda, Isabel..."

"Isabel... _Isobael?_ Captain Isobael was there?"

"Nah, not her. Isabel was Isanil, the one with 'air loike this."

Azanael understood from his gesture that he meant the commander whom she had seen aboard _Magnanimous Hyacinth_ when the name of Schuhart mysteriously came up, and seen again leading the Yuen Long rescue attempt. "And Edamamel was there as well? Which one was she?"

"She wasn't with 'em yesterday. They must'a known she'd cause trouble."

"How so?"

"Edamamel can't keep 'er hands to herself."

So Azanael had inferred from the scant data available. "I want to know about what happened," she pressed. "How were you betrayed?"

"Yer better off not knowin' about it," Phil replied, turning serious for the first time. "Too dangerous."

"But – "

"He's right," a third voice cut in. "You're not cut out for this kind of skulduggery."

The pilot was rudely startled when the towering woman called Keiko dropped off the shuttle's hull, landing in a crouch on the ground beside her. "Wh – where did _you_ come from?" Azanael gasped.

"I was up there for quite a while," the giantess answered casually. "I was starting to wonder if you'd ever notice."

"But the sensors... How did you – ?"

Keiko winked. "Trade secret... You done with work already, Phil?"

"Finished early. Somethin' else yah want done?"

"Yeah... The kids need to keep up with their training, but I'm feeling headache-prone today. Think you could supervise them for a while?"

"The little shelias? Piece of piss." Phil stood up. "Noice talkin' to yah again, Azzy. Don't let KK cop a feel, now."

Keiko chuckled as the Australian walked away. "Funny guys, those brothers. Must have given their officers conniptions while they were in uniform."

Fifteen years of life among forime had not yet immunized Azanael against the feeling of intimidation she got on the rare occasions when she encountered a woman taller than herself. Said feeling only compounded her embarrassment at being caught asking impertinent questions. "Uh..."

"You're safe," Keiko announced coolly. "From me, at least. Kataphel already told you not to go digging."

"How..." The Arume left the question unfinished, too frightened by the implication in Keiko's warning.

"Well, I suppose you deserve something for your persistence. Want to know the real reason why Edamamel has been so hard to find?"

"I'll take what I can get," Azanael sighed, dreading what was to come even as she spoke.

"It's like this," the giantess explained. "My cousin used to have a partner – cute, courageous, a great fighter without being unfeminine. Together they were unstoppable."

"And..?"

"Edamamel raped her," Keiko concluded bluntly, "and Roland couldn't do anything about it."

_Ouch._ Azanael swallowed. "I... I didn't expect that..."

"And you were happier that way." The forime shook her head. "I'll say this one more time: _drop it._ You have no idea how much trouble you'll bring, and not just on yourself." Leaning forward, she took the pilot by the wrists and pulled her upright. "Besides, we have something that's far more suitable for you."

Azanael jerked her arms back defensively. "What is it?"

Keiko lifted a finger and pointed to the west, from whence the faint drone of an approaching helicopter could be heard. "That."

* * *

"Being a gunslinger in real life is hard work," Schuhart asserted, steering the pickup between uncleared piles of rubble and disabled vehicles. "No blanks, no squibs, no wires... and no stunt doubles."

Under other circumstances, Renaril would have been a very happy Arume. Due to a convenient shortage of seating space, she rode on Kang's lap and was made acutely aware of it every time the truck hit a bump. She watched the scenery sweeping by as Schuhart turned onto a less cluttered street, passing a marching line of disarmed collaborator troops and Arume ground personnel. They were escorted by members of Schuhart's mercenary subsidiary, the Sholay Defence Company. As the vehicle progressed, however, it came to an individual who stood out: a fair man with a capital H – or maybe it was a Cyrillic N – on his forehead.

Schuhart braked, then leaned out the window and whistled: _Whui-wu..!_

The man promptly whistled back. _Whui-wu-wi-WHEET-WHEET-whuu!_

They did the next bit together. _Whui-wu... Whui-wu-wi-WHUIT-WHUIT-whuu!_

Then a man further up the line joined in. _Whui-wu... Whui-wu-wi-wiuu... Whu-wi-wu-whuit – whu-whuit – whui-wuu!_ Within a few more seconds people all along the parade were contributing to the tune, and Schuhart gave the tattooed man a thumbs-up before driving onward.

Renaril just stared at him. "That's a very old tradition," he said offhandedly. "Your friend with the green hair probably knows it."

"Meh." Renaril turned her attention to the left side of the street. The driver made a right turn and then a left, and suddenly they were riding through the middle of a parking lot liberally strewn with vehicles. Most of them were Arume hovercrafts, their conditions ranging from pristine to almost completely destroyed. One was operational, moving back and forth in short spurts while workmen in hard hats guided the pilot with hand signals. Another had been jacked up and stripped down to a bare hull, its components neatly arranged on the ground for men with clipboards and measuring tapes to mull over. "How much will those sell for?" the group commander asked glumly.

"They're not for sale," said Schuhart. "We're keeping them for R and D." He pointed to a hovercraft which was intact except for its precisely excised bombard, hanging from a crane parked in front of it. "Our German branch has been working on a project to convert obsolete chassis into inexpensive tank destroyers. The gearheads are looking into adapting it to this platform."

Renaril was relieved, both because proliferation of Arume technology seemed less of an immediate problem and because she actually understood the man's tech-talk for once. "What would this, er, upgrade be called, and what would it cost?"

"If I leave it to the Germans, it'll be the ten-point-five centimeter Panzerkanone L-Seven auf Geschutzwagen Ninety-Eight-A... So I think we'd better call it a self-propelled utility gun and leave it at that. I can't quote any prices at this stage, but it should be quite competitive."

"It sounds useful in theory," Kang stated, "but the Type Ninety-Eight's lack of armor will still be a liability."

"Maybe," Schuhart countered. "Good news is, most of the gross deployed weight is in the plasma cannon's magnets, capacitors and coolant tubes. Even with an L-Seven or D-Ten installed, there'll be some free capacity left for extra armor... It won't be able to take on a Leopard Two or a T-Eighty-Four, but it should stand a good chance against the older models."

"I hope so."

So did Renaril. She didn't know much about armored warfare, but she understood that if General Lin chose to attack, her forces would need everything they could get as quickly as they could get it. She also knew her own superiors couldn't be relied upon to be forthcoming with logistical help. "How soon can you have some ready?"

"Best case scenario is two or three working prototypes in under ten days. After that we'll need to bring in more materials."

"So will we," said Kang thoughtfully. "I've heard that Novaya Tula had an Antonov heavy cargo lifter for their Siberian operations. Did you acquire it?"

"Yeah." Schuhart braked as they came to a crossroads, letting a tank with a pair of collaborator APCs in tow pass ahead. "We'd be using it already, but the nearest runway that can handle such a large plane is the new strip at North Guangzhou International. I don't think that pesky general would let us fly stuff into there with no questions asked."

"Probably not." Kang's arms, encircling Renaril's waist as a precaution against sudden stops, tightened unconsciously and pulled the Arume back against the larger woman. If the colonel was aware of it, or of her passenger's reaction, she made no comment.

Schuhart waited for the street to clear, then shifted gears. "Ob's stuuurmt oooder schniet, ob die Sooon-ne uns laaacht... Der Taaag gluuu-hend Heiss, o-der eis-kalt die Naaacht... Bestaubt sind die – " _Beep-beep-beep-beep! ...Bip!_ "Hello? ...Dammit, Nigel, stop calling me at work! Camilla _will_ recover and I _will_ front the medical costs... And don't even _start_ on that. Now that Majestic Twelve is running the show, all _you_ have to do is sit on the mountain and watch the tigers fight... No, that's not Sun Zi. Sun Zi said that if you get to the mountain first, you should occupy it and let the enemy come to you... I'm sure the late chairman would be heartbroken, but I'm _not._ Now if you don't mind, I've got to be somewhere else." _Bip!_

* * *

The helicopter was big – comparable to the hulking Mi-26 Azanael had flown against in simulation half a lifetime ago – yet surprisingly agile. Its fat gray hull wore no national markings, only cryptic strings of letters and numbers, yet it was unmistakably designed for war, with a four-barreled gun in a chin turret and stubby wings carrying clustered rocket pods. The machine descended under a stacked pair of rotors and touched down in the space next to the Arume shuttle. Its arrival was greeted by a swarm of forime equipped with handcarts, a forklift and a motorcycle half-track.

"Not bad, eh?" Keiko grinned, hair blowing in the rotor wash. "It's the latest model. Goes into serial production next week."

Azanael had to shield her eyes with a raised hand. "It's a Kamov?"

"Joint venture with Mil Moscow. They call it the Ka-Seventy-Seven. NATO calls it the 'Hack'... I flew it myself last month – nice ride."

"It looks... versatile," the alien hedged, watching a ramp extend from the rear of the chopper.

"Damn right... The Russians have been combat testing prototypes in the Caucasus for six years. It can take a beating and give one right back. Want a closer look?"

"Me?" Wouldn't they want to keep Arume _away_ from sensitive technology? "Is that all right?"

"Sure. It's primitive tech for you anyway, ain't it?"

"Well..."

"C'mon." Keiko grabbed Azanael's hand and pulled her forward. "Your kind will see plenty more of it either way."

* * *

"...That dependence should ease up once you've got access to some domestic factories. If you don't like the XM-Eighteen and don't want to stick with the QBZ-Ninety-Five, try KBP – they're licensing production rights for some of German Korobov's designs. Rheinmetall's price for the MG-Three license is pretty low too."

"Noted," said Kang. "Is this the place?"

"Yeah, we're here." Schuhart drove across the empty lot and pulled in beside the three-axle truck parked by the cement perimeter wall, around which a group of his employees were standing. "Sorry for the wait, guys. Got stuck in traffic."

The men laughed at his excuse. One of them asked something in what Renaril assumed was Russian, though she understood none of it.

Schuhart answered in the same as he swung his door open and reached for his leg brace, only to be promptly distracted by the satellite phone. "Yeah? ...Oh, hello. Yes, that's fine... One moment." He passed the device to his Chinese passenger. "It's Eripol. Says she has a Party official on the line who wants to talk to you."

The colonel took the phone in one hand and opened her door with the other, encouraging Renaril to vacate her lap by tilting her hips. The group commander grudgingly slid into the middle of the seat as Kang stepped outside, speaking in terse, rapid bursts of Chinese. It reminded Renaril of their first encounter in the elevator. Turning around, she saw the men outside setting up a pair of folding chairs and looked to Schuhart for clues of what to expect.

He merely gestured at her chest. "Might want to cover that."

Renaril looked down, realizing the white material of her bodysuit perfectly highlighted her erect nipples. "Wah..!"

"Enjoyed the ride, didn't you?" The one-eyed man went back to fitting his brace. "I guess it's only natural."

The Arume glared at him resentfully as she crossed her arms over her breasts, but her expression softened when she remembered his response to her plea for help. "...Who was she?"

"Hm?"

"The woman you loved. What was she like?"

"What's it to you?" Schuhart growled. "You didn't know her."

"But... you said she died because of us..."

"She's not dead." The man's voice went bitter. "Much worse than that."

"I don't understand."

"You probably wouldn't even if I told you everything... There's one thing I _will_ tell you, though." Schuhart drew the pistol which he carried under his right arm, a long-barreled, slab-sided thing in chrome with a trigger and grip of red and blue plastic respectively. It carried a small electronic sight at the rear end. "This is a Strayer-Tripp Twenty-Eleven, the only one like it. I pried it from the warm, dead hands of the most evil man I've ever known." The handgun vanished. "But not before he clipped my finger and messed up my leg... He's the reason you and I are standing here. He started all of this."

"All..?"

_"All."_ Schuhart grabbed his rifle off the dashboard and exited the truck.

Renaril followed, inwardly wondering why all the Russians had large knives clipped to their own weapons' muzzles. Kang joined the assembly after several more seconds. "That was Weisheng Ying," she said, returning the satphone.

"The Hainan provincial committee secretary, huh? What'd she say?"

"She dislikes me, but she dislikes Lin Qinsong even more. She might consider joining forces with us, provided we make certain assurances."

Renaril looked to Schuhart. "Do you know this person?"

The man shrugged. "Never met her, but she made her reputation as a corruption-buster... She's straight, if that's what you wanted to know." He nodded towards the chairs. "Let's get this gig started. Pick a seat, any seat."

Renaril picked the chair on the left and sat in it. Kang sat beside her, while Schuhart stood a few paces in front of them. The Russians opened the back of the second truck and two climbed inside. The rest formed a semicircle around it, blades pointing inward. There was a scraping noise from inside, and then the pair reappeared flanking a Chinese man. His arms were tied behind his back, with an additional loop around his knees. He seemed to be in a daze, offering no resistance as he was lowered to the ground, marched over to Schuhart and pushed down into a kneeling position facing the wall.

"Welcome to Uncle Roland's Tough Shit School of Commander Education." As he spoke, Renaril glanced at Kang and saw that her face had hardened, her hands clenching into taut fists. "Today's lesson – " _Rachak!_ " – is Chinese justice."

There was a thunderclap. The kneeling man jerked once, bits of red matter splattering on the wall and the pavement around him. Everything above the level of his eyes was suddenly gone. Renaril screamed.

"Next," said Schuhart flatly. The Russians dragged the body to the side, then went back to the truck. "Last year, the People's Republic of China executed upwards of three thousand people – more than any other country. Capital offenses included killing pandas, petty drug trafficking and corporate fraud."

"W-what are you talking about!?" the dismayed Arume cried. "Stop this!"

Schuhart ignored her. "While lethal injection was introduced nearly twenty years ago, the prevalent method remains as you see here." A second man, equally bound, was dragged up as Schuhart finished speaking. He fired one round into the back of the man's head, his face unreadable. "Next."

"Stop!" Renaril rose from her seat, only for Kang to seize her by the wrist. "Let... let me go!"

The colonel pulled the Arume down onto her lap – not the arousing embrace Renaril had enjoyed before, but a suffocating straitjacket. "Don't look away," Kang whispered, pinning Renaril's arms to her sides. "Don't dare close your eyes."

"Despite international criticism, the Chinese judicial system has long been a marvel of efficiency... especially when dealing with political undesirables and unruly ethnic minorities." _Pokh!_ "Next."

Renaril squirmed, unable to break free. "Why!?" she shouted. "Why are you doing this!?"

"These men are guilty of desertion, rape and murder. Their ultimate treatment by PRC authorities would have been no different." The arms dealer turned his back on his audience as the fourth prisoner was placed before him. "You told me to deal with them." An ejected casing twirled through the air. "Next."

Renaril was crying by the time the sixth man was brought out. Kang sat as if made of stone until all ten of the condemned had met their fate, then slowly relaxed her grip. Even the Russians were looking unsettled by then, a couple of them such that they kept shooting looks of pity at the women.

Schuhart, contrarily, would have none of that. He merely engaged the rifle's safety and put an arm through the sling. "That concludes today's lesson," said he. "Class dismissed."

"Urk..!" Renaril bolted, but didn't get far before the panicked motion pushed her over the edge. Her tormentor shook his head as she collapsed onto her hands and knees, the acidic remains of her breakfast pooling on the tarmac.

"You hooked up with a lady," he sang sardonically as he lent a hand loading the corpses back into the truck. "A normal thing to do... How were you to kno-o-ow... she was with the Party too?"

"Barbarians," the Arume moaned.

"You staked a claim in China... but you didn't want the risk! Find comrades, guns and money... or get right outta this!"

The slender woman raised her tear-streaked face. "Murderous, bloodthirsty..!"

"Yeah?" Schuhart's lip curled. "A slug through the head while doped witless isn't a bad way to go, all else considered. It's a hell of a lot better than some things the Chinese _used_ to do." He advanced until he was standing over her. "And isn't this exactly the fate your charming mother decreed for our gosta last night? Or did that marvelous turkey shoot just happen because your _cheque_ bounced?"

"That – it's not the same!"

"No?" There was a derisive snort. "You rear-echelon motherfuckers have it easy. You give the order and someone else takes care of the messy part – out of sight, out of mind. You've never had to do it yourself. You _can't_ do it yourself... That's why you need nasty people like me, and don't you ever forget it."

Kang mercifully interceded, gently raising Renaril upright and producing a handkerchief. "Schuhart," she intoned quietly, "you've gone too far."

"May I never have cause to go this far again," the scarred man replied solemnly.

Renaril subsided into irregular sniffling as she wiped away the traces of vomit around her mouth. "Is this your revenge?" she asked. "Are you satisfied?"

"Revenge is a futile goal." Schuhart walked over to the blue pickup and placed the AK inside. "And punishment is useless if it doesn't motivate improvement." His gaze fixed on Kang and lingered there for a long moment. "First they came for the nationalists, and you wouldn't have said anything because you don't like nationalists... Then they came for the intellectuals, and you wouldn't have said anything because you don't like intellectuals... Then they came for the moderates, and you wouldn't have said anything because you don't like moderates." He took off his sunglasses and flicked them through the truck's open window. His eye briefly appeared a peculiarly opaque shade of azure as it caught the sunlight. "If they'd come for you, would anyone have liked you enough to say something?"

"I understand," the colonel sighed. "I'm sorry."

"Consider yourself forgiven... Group Commander?"

"I..." Renaril swallowed. "I've made some bad choices here, and... and I hope that in the future we can cooperate without misunderstanding."

"Right," said Schuhart, and suddenly he seemed as cheerful as could be. "Now that we've put this sordid mess behind us, what say we go hammer out some grand plans before lunch break?"

"I don't think I want any lunch," the Arume groaned under her breath as she followed the others to the truck. They got underway with blessed alacrity, and soon Renaril was pacified by the soothing combination of a tender companion and a cool breeze. The driver, for his part, wasn't generous enough to stop singing.

"When the fight – is done... and the blood dries dark... and the pyres – are the only – lights you see... Please don't – be afraid... No, please don't – shed one tear... Just as long – as she stands – stands by thee..."

* * *

The Second Layer War began in China, and many of its battles would be fought over the heritage of that ancient nation. The next key event, however, was to take place on an overpopulated island archipelago to the northeast – the land of the rising sun.


	22. Supplementary Documents: First Part

_Supplementary Documents – First Part_

_Transcript of an interview of Lieutenant Alan Rigby (NAPF 2014-2019, Hydra Protection Services LLC 2019-2035) conducted by Hakim ibn Khaled al-Misri of the Southern California Historical Reenactment Guild on 12 June 2038._

_Part 1 of 12._

Q: First, tell us a little about yourself.

A: I was born in the second universal layer, in what was then Akron in the American state of Ohio. I was born in 1996, so I was too young to remember much of life before the Arume invasion.

Q: How and why did you join the North American Pacification Force?

A: I was motivated by desperation more than anything else. My father was left an invalid by a 'Betty Boomer' [ed: self-destructive biological weapon] attack when I was twelve, and my mother's work didn't bring in enough to support him and four children at once. We moved to Massachusetts when I was fifteen, trying to get away from the frontlines, but things didn't get better... Since I was the oldest, it was up to me to ease the load. The problem was that there was no work I was qualified for, or much work of any kind. Basically I joined the NAPF because it paid well. [laughs]

Q: What kind of army was the NAPF?

A: A mess. I didn't appreciate that fact at the time because I had no previous military experience, but the veterans who did the training never let us forget how much better things used to be.

Q: Did it try to be an extension of the old US armed forces?

A: Sort of, with bits of Canadian and Mexican thrown in. A lot of people and equipment were carried over directly in the beginning, but it was all replaced as time went by. At first almost everything we used was the same as what the other side, the resistance, had.

Q: What sorts of action did you participate in?

A: Mostly patrols and peacekeeping for the first couple of years. I don't remember any particular incidents, so I guess it was pretty ordinary. I do remember that people looked down on us everywhere we went, but I didn't care because I knew my service was feeding my family.

Q: How were your experiences in dealing with the Arume?

A: On the street they would treat us like dirt, even those who were helping them. We didn't see much of them in the force because they relied on experienced collaborators to run everything. I knew there were Arume ground units, but I never saw one up close before we came to the third layer.

Q: When did you learn you would be sent to another world?

A: A week before we shipped out... No, more like five days before. We didn't get any mission briefings until after we arrived, either.

Q: How were you organized? Was your unit all American?

A: Everyone in my original company was American except for two Canucks. They were cool guys... After the transfer they mixed up the units for some reason. I wound up in a squad with one of the Canadians, a German and a couple of Czechs. They also changed our gear when we got to the third layer.

Q: What did they change?

A: They gave us a new uniform, with a helmet and air filter that hid the wearer's face completely. [gesturing] It wasn't comfortable, but it sure did look intimidating. There was also a new rifle... Not completely new, they'd been testing it [ed: the XM18] for a while, but new to us. It was like the carbine I had before, but more reliable. [ed: probably a Colt M4A1] It had a stock that folded sideways, so it was easier to carry in vehicles.

Q: How did you arrive in the Hong Kong area?

A: At first we were kept on standby in case one of the liaison offices needed backup. My unit was picked out for service under Group Commander Benacirael when her first strategy feel apart. They deployed us in the city north of Hong Kong. [ed: Shenzhen]

Q: What were you told to expect?

A: Terrorists, mercenaries... [shakes head] They never got the story quite straight. It didn't matter because it was all lies anyway.

Q: Can you describe what happened on March 17th?

A: First there was the killing of civilians. [ed: in Yuen Long, popularly known as the 'Saint Patrick's Day Massacre'] We didn't know what had happened until afterward, but we knew something was going on... Then we were told to move out at once, before the sun was even up. We were supposed to be supported by armored vehicles, but they hadn't been delivered yet so we were given Arume hovercrafts. I didn't like those at all.

Q: Why?

A: Too damn quiet, and there were always rumors about hovercraft pilots running over a grunt or two for kicks... We had an Arume directing both us and them, and I wouldn't have put it past her to let that happen. [ed: Commander Spiegel, KIA later that day] The scooters were pretty much useless in battle, too. Couldn't survive anything bigger than a fifty-cal.

Q: Can you describe the battle?

A: You mean the first one? Well, that was pretty bad... First they sent us marching down the road, making a show of force. Suddenly, bang-bang! The Canadian and one of the Czechs bought it right there, just ahead of me. It was a couple of Russians hiding up in the hills, firing exploding bullets. [low] God, what a mess... They were smart, didn't hang around. We shot back, of course, but we hit squat. Spiegel made us charge the rest of the way into the city.

Q: Charge?

A: Well, it ended up more like a prolonged hustle. Maybe she thought the main force was closer than it was... Anyway, we were pretty tired by the time we finally did make contact. Spiegel had a chemical mortar unit come up behind and fire toxic gas over our heads. It wasn't enough.

Q: Not enough?

A: We were safe from the gas as long as we wore our helmets and filters, but we couldn't breathe or see as well with them on. Turned into a bad handicap. The other side, the Russians and Chinese, most of them didn't have any protection at all. [shakes head] They didn't care. Some of them died from the gas, some of them took hits, but the rest kept fighting... They had a tank, an old one with a bulldozer blade on it. The big gun didn't work, but the little ones did. [ed: M4A3 Sherman 'tankdozer'] It smashed through our lines, tore the chem crew to shreds and rammed an APC... Crushed it against a cement wall like a big soda can. Another thing I was too busy to notice at the time. [shakes head again] Dear God, the Indian!

Q: Indian?

A: Just a minute... The gas dispersed quickly, and there was nobody left to launch more of it. My squad was ordered to flank an enemy group who were well entrenched. We had to go diagonally across an open street, and I was pointman... When the signal came, I ran for dear life. I got to the other side all right, but when I looked behind... I saw the German, the other Czech, my buddy Dan Ackley and the Holland brothers, the last from my old company, all lying dead in the street. The sniper got them, killed five men, just like that. I didn't even hear the shots.

Q: But he missed you?

A: Or let me go. I didn't stay around to find out which... I tried to find my way back to the friendly lines without exposing myself, but I ran into a Chinese squad. Those Chinese weren't good shots, but they were full of spirit. I suppose I managed to hit one or two of them, but then I was flanked... I ducked to reload and when I turned back, their squad leader hit me with a burst from a Tommygun. The slugs didn't penetrate my vest, but they knocked the wind out of me and left bruises all over my front. I was lucky, through: some of the others who were hit by it were killed by the impact alone.

Q: Blunt force trauma?

A: Yes... I don't really remember what happened next, except that I was in a lot of pain. The cease-fire must have been called pretty soon after that.

Q: How were you treated under the ceasefire?

A: Better than I expected, and probably better than we would have treated the other side if the places were reversed. I managed to meet up with some of the others and the Russians gave us some food, which was really nice of them.

Q: You were still in Kowloon when Rule 303 was declared. How did you survive?

A: Sheer dumb luck. [laughs] I put my rifle down so that I could eat, and when the Russians surrounded us... Well, I knew I had no chance. A bunch of us surrendered without a fuss, but we could hear others fighting as we were herded together. They put us in an empty warehouse, with guards all around... In the morning we were handed over to our own side. I thought we'd be in trouble for giving up, but nobody ever said much about it. I guess they were just desperate to get all the fighting men they could.

Q: You were sent to Shenzhen, correct?

A: That's right. We were formally transferred into the Sino-Arumic Liaison and reorganized. My company spent the next couple of weeks helping train Arume junior officers. It was the first time I'd seen an Arume personally commanding squad-level units, and it seemed like it was the first time for most of them as well.

Q: How did they treat you?

A: It varied. A lot of them openly loathed us, while others were able to suck it up and do their jobs. A few genuinely respected us by the time it was over. The higher-ups, on the other hand... Never a good word for any of us, I tell you!

Q: Did senior Arume try to interfere with operations?

A: They sent in the inquisitors, of course, the nosy creeps with the black hats and capes... Those guys were only there for a few days, though. They tried to lean on the Russians and a couple had limbs blown off. We thought it served them right.

Q: You're referring to Eto Delo's Russian employees, not the Russian Navy observers?

A: Yes. Even the inquisitors didn't dare pick fights with the Russian military. Those guys were hardcore, much tougher than any I saw back in the second layer. The Indian PMC guys [ed: Sholay Defence] were like that, too... Always very polite, but totally deadly.

Q: Can you describe your camp life at that time?

A: It was kind of rough at first. The locals didn't trust us and we were short of everything, because Arume logistics wouldn't give the Liaison as much as it needed. We knew later that certain people were trying to make the operation fail so they could replace the GC [ed: Group Commander Renaril] but she used the contractors [ed: Eto Delo] to bring in a lot of supplies for us. We had it good then, not ever having to eat Arume rations.

Q: The Arume food was bad?

A: Not bad per se... It tasted okay and it was certainly healthy, but it was all the same: paste that you would squeeze out of a tube, and maybe some cracker-like things. The monotony of eating that day after day could drive a guy insane.

Q: I've seen a photograph of one of your comrades holding an Arume erotic magazine. Do you know anything about that?

A: [laughing] Oh yes! We were strictly forbidden to have those, but we had them anyway... When Arume troops were stationed in our area, they would sneak into our barracks and steal them from us.

Q: Steal?

A: Those magazines were strictly rationed, and there never seemed to be enough to make the Arume soldiers happy.

Q: What about Chinese military personnel, did you see many of them?

A: We trained with them several times, but they were very aloof.

Q: Did you ever see Renaril or Colonel Kang?

A: Yes, they came to inspect us now and then. I remember Renaril didn't understand a lot of things. The colonel was stern but very fair, and she made us feel appreciated... At the end of April we were moved to a new barracks in Guangzhou. Her office was nearby, and sometimes she came out to run with us in the mornings.

Q: Did you know she was pregnant?

A: No. We were rotated to the front before it, uh, grew enough to be noticeable. I don't remember when I heard about it.

_End of part 1._

* * *

_Excerpts from _Today: The Press and the Second Layer War_, edited by P.K.M. Upadhyay._

...In a speech which drew heavily on his evangelist roots, Senator Logan Hunley today urged the people of the United States to repel the Arume. "Let them not into your homes or your hearts," he extolled a rapt audience, "for they are sin given flesh..."

...A spokesman for the Indian government announced today that recent talks with Pakistan have gone "extremely well." He also reiterated India's commitments to SATO and the mutual security treaty with the Russian Federation, and warned the Arume that any further violation of Mongolian neutrality would be met by a "swift and decisive response" from both nations...

...Ministers in the Netherlands and Denmark today received from the Arume an offer to fund an extensive land reclamation programme. No word at press time whether either government would accept the proposal, though it has been met with guarded enthusiasm on the streets. The two countries have nearly bankrupted themselves in the struggle to control flooding after Second Impact...

...Today in Parliament, MP Steve Gilham demanded that the prime minister immediately relinquish the unprecedented authority granted him by the recent passage of a new Emergency Powers Act. "I do not enter this chamber day after day so that I may watch as our age-old liberties are painstakingly whittled down to exactly naught," he thundered. "If you wish to experiment with petite fascism, pack it into your brown bag and depart our green isle posthaste..."

...Augusta police today stated that the brutal murder of Paul Rigaud by Joseph Dwyer and a group of friends was apparently motivated by Rigaud's sexual orientation. "The fags are all in cahoots with the space cuntsuckers," police quoted Dwyer as telling them, "just like the trannies and all the other queers. We gotta get them before they get us." Dwyer and the other suspects remain in custody as Maine's GLBT community struggles to cope with the surge of violent homophobia which is sweeping the nation...

...The decentralized nature of the Arume command structure continues to cause headaches for all parties: today a representative of the alien race requested that the Korean government clarify whether its declaration of war is directed at the Chinese or Japanese offices, as the Arume do not have a liaison branch in Korea...

...When asked to comment on the probable policies of the Sino-Arumic Liaison during an interview today, analyst E. Harley Finlay quipped, "It's communism, Jim, but not as we know it. Kang Li identifies herself as a communist, but her stated beliefs discard virtually every aspect of the Marxist, Leninist and Maoist canons save a few vague ideals." He added that it would be "imprudent, even reckless" to pass judgment before the ideology of what some are calling "new communism" has been clearly articulated...

...Saudi-born arms magnate Abu Muhammad Omar al-Rashid bin Salaad bin Ibrahim al-Hejazi was greeted by cheering crowds in Riyadh today, following his declaration of refusal to conduct business with the Arume. His choice of alignment is likely to influence others in the world of privatized war, though many will no doubt honor their ancient tradition and sell to anyone who can pay...

* * *

**Self Propelled Utility Gun**

Plaintext version with image captions, brought to you by Encyclopedia Titanica (Full article) (Plaintext without image captions) (Show inline citations)

The **Self-Propelled Utility Gun**, also known as the 'Self-Propelled Ugly Gun', 'Spug', 'Pug' or 'Stug', was a multi-role assault gun and tank destroyer based on the Artech AV-98 quantum helifold hovercraft. It was designed by Eto Delo Group and widely used during the Second Layer War, the Arume Civil War and subsequent conflicts in the first, second and third universal layers.

Originally developed as an interim measure utilizing captured and obsolete materials, the Spug became a versatile weapon renowned for its maneuverability, low cost and ease of maintenance. The design was conceptually descended from the German StuG III/IV and the Swedish Stridsvagn 103.

**Origins**

When the Second Layer War began in March 2016, the most modern tanks fielded in the third universal layer were the American M1A4 Super Abrams, the Russian T-90-10 and the German Leopard 2A7, all evolutions of Cold War designs. Third world armor forces were dominated by the Soviet T-54/55 and the American M60 Patton.

_Main article: Artech AV-98_

The Arume had inherited a large assortment of tanks and other vehicles from the armies of conquered states in the second layer, but did not initially transport any to the third layer apart from a selection of armored personnel carriers. Their closest analog was the AV-98, adopted in 1857. The AV-98 was originally designed for the mobile artillery role, but frequently employed as a makeshift assault gun due to the poor development of indigenous armored warfare tactics. By 2016 it was obsolete even by its makers' slowly progressing technical standards, though its cheap price and lack of a viable replacement program ensured that it remained the mainstay of the first layer's relatively small ground forces.

_[Caption: An AV-98 on display at the Musee des Blindes.]_

On 17 March, Arume and Terran collaborator troops dispatched by Group Commander Benacirael attacked Hong Kong in the Battle of Kowloon, supported by an estimated contingent of sixty AV-98s. The invading force was fought to a standstill and then expelled by the Eto Delo employees and Chinese volunteers defending the city, leaving nearly all the AV-98s behind. After a ceasefire had been signed with the Sino-Arumic Liaison, Eto Delo's staff turned their attention to the problem of providing effective armor support for the Liaison's Chinese reunification campaign.

Eto Delo was left in possession of ten intact hovercrafts and at least thirty more which could be repaired using components from wrecked examples, aided by captured technical documents and surviving crews. The preliminary examination indicated three main flaws in the design: inadequate armor, an ineffective primary weapon, and a lack of secondary armament. These flaws stemmed from the use of a high-power directed energy stream projector as the vehicle's sole weapon, rather than an electromagnetic mass driver or energized packet cannon: the weight of the 'plasma hose' and its support systems occupied most of the platform's lifting capacity, leaving virtually no free weight for armor allocation.

_[Caption: Eto Delo technicians examine a damaged AV-98, 19 March 2016.]_

At that time Eto Delo Berlin (formerly Johannes Schultze Metall und Maschinenfabrik GmbH) was engaged in the development of an inexpensive upgrade program aimed at converting obsolescent tank chassis into low-profile tank hunters. On 18 March, Eto Delo headquarters in Hong Kong ordered EDB to suspend work on the original program and instead adapt the project to fit the AV-98.

**Design and development**

Encouraged by a promise of future contracts from the SAL, Eto Delo's engineers in Germany and technicians in Hong Kong worked around the clock for nine days. The first pair of prototypes, nicknamed _Marder Junior_ and _Happy Hotchkiss_, were ready for firing tests on 27 March. The initial Block I design carried a 105 mm Royal Ordnance L7 tank gun in an open-topped superstructure placed atop the AV-98's original hull. An MG3 machine gun was mounted in front of the commander's station for defense against infantry. The Block I arrangement was unsuitable for long-term development, as the L7 functioned only by manual control and the superstructure left the gunner, loader and commander exposed to all threats on the battlefield, but it proved the conceptual validity of the project.

_[Caption: _Marder Junior_ firing on Chinese tanks, 3 April 2016.]_

A better design was nearing completion even as the first prototypes were assembled, and construction of the improved Block II began as soon as the Block Is were moved out of the workshop. The Block II removed the superstructure and placed the gun in a casemate at the center of the hull itself, which was stripped of all non-essential fittings. The savings in weight allowed applique armor to be installed on the front and sides of the hull. Though it remained dependent on simple optical sights and manual loading and aiming, the Block II offered a considerably lower profile than its predecessor.

The Block II prototypes, _Dear John_ and _Hi There_, were completed on 31 March, the day before Chinese forces loyal to General Lin Qinsong initiated the Battle of Guangzhou. All four existing Spugs were pressed into combat against Lin's Type 59 tanks. The Block Is and Block IIs accounted for three and five kills respectively despite their limitations, though _Happy Hotchkiss_ was knocked out by autocannon fire on 2 April.

_[Caption: A Block II Spug undergoing final assembly.]_

The SAL's capture of Guangzhou's strategically vital airport on 5 April allowed heavy equipment to be delivered by air, while the signing on 9 April of an alliance with the naval forces stationed on Hainan guaranteed oceanic supply routes. Eto Delo was contracted to supply modernized T-55s and provide logistical support for the Liaison's growing inventory of Type 59, 69 and 79 tanks, but Liaison senior military commander Kang Li had recognized the advantages of the Spug design and secured funding for continued development.

The Spug Block III was finalized in late May 2016. It followed from the Block II, adding a flexible MG3 in the front of the hull and a rudimentary electronic fire control system for the main gun. The distinctive outer skin of the basic AV-98 was removed and replaced with a simple spaced armor shroud coated in radar- and infrared-absorbent nanopaint, improving survivability. A purer infantry support variant, the Block IV, was also introduced, armed with a pair of 40 mm Bofors L/60 guns. Initial Block III production consisted of twenty-five units converted from remaining AV-98s captured in Hong Kong. The new Spugs confirmed their value in the frequent skirmishes which characterized the summer campaign.

_[Caption: Block III Spugs advancing towards Guilin, China on 3 June 2016.]_

**Field use and ongoing refinement**

The first deployment outside China came when a second batch of Block III units were produced at Eto Delo Berlin using newly manufactured chassis. These were sent to the Netherlands and Denmark in July in response to deteriorating relations with Great Britain. Spugs formed an integral part of both countries' coastal defenses when the Spijkenisse Incident inaugurated the Second Layer War's European theater.

By November 2016 the Spug was in service with ten Arume-aligned states and factions. The Block III prototypes evolved into the so-called 'West' model, which retained the 105 mm gun and carried either an MG3 or FN MAG in the hull plus a Browning M2HB accessible from the commander's top hatch. The main gun was fitted with a fully modern autoloader, stabilizer and rangefinder, tied into the hovercraft's chassis computers for maximum efficiency. The corresponding 'East' model carried a 100 mm D-10 main gun, a hull-mounted PK and an NSV heavy machine gun on the roof, but was otherwise identical. This dual selection allowed Eto Delo to market the Spug to clients who already possessed stocks of either NATO or Warsaw Pact ammunition.

_[Caption: A Danish Spug-W patrols a cement dike on Zealand.]_

The Spug's maneuverability was unmatched by any wheeled or tracked combat vehicle, and it was immune to pressure-activated mines. Being inherently amphibious, it was capable of launching from a ship or leaving shore when defending a coastline. Its low, uncomplicated profile was easily camouflaged when in a hull down position. While it could not practically face any modern main battle tank in an open fight, it carried sufficient firepower to destroy the obsolete or downgraded 'monkey model' tanks which the Arume commonly encountered in the Middle East and Africa. It was never able to carry adequate armor, however, and thus depended on its agility for protection. This left it especially vulnerable in the cramped conditions of urban combat unless escorted by infantry.

_[Caption: A disassembled Spug-E on display at the Deutsches Panzermuseum.]_

The problem of limited firepower was not lost on the Spug's designers. Attempts were made as early as June 2016 to design a casemate capable of mounting the 120 mm Rheinmetall and 125 mm 2A46 smoothbore guns. Unfortunately the combined weight of the gun, the casemate and a useful quantity of ammunition exceeded the platform's lifting capacity, forcing the designers to choose between cutting precious armor to save weight or else finding a better base vehicle. Repeated calls for upgrades to the AV-98's outdated propulsion components were ignored by Arume bureaucrats who stubbornly maintained the official stance that a combination of stock AV-98s and conventional tanks was adequate. This attitude persisted in the face of glowing reports from the individual liaison commanders who had obtained Spugs via their own budgets.

_[Caption: Master Commander Keldanil, leader of the Dutch-Danish United Front and a vocal proponent of the Spug.]_

Eto Delo's engineers persevered and arrived at a solution in January 2017, the same month Russia and India entered the war. Upgunned test Spugs were built using AV-98 hulls fitted with axial toroid boosters borrowed from an AV-50 'land barge' cargo carrier. This measure solved the weight problem but introduced difficulties of its own: the AV-50 was designed for prolonged operation at steady power levels, and the stress of the rapid shoot-and-scoot maneuvers necessary to survive in combat led to frequent breakdowns in the absence of scrupulous maintenance. Not until after the American Breakup following the Independence Day coup in 2017 did senior Arume authorize production of the components originally requested.

_[Caption: Spug 2 prototype number 4 maneuvering during a public demonstration at the Hong Kong Museum of Human History. The early armor profile and radome are clearly visible.]_

The resulting Spug 2E and 2W were now evenly matched in firepower with the most modern tanks they would encounter, but considerably more expensive to produce and maintain than the original Spug. With low cost no longer an advantage, the development team focused on maximizing first-strike capability and offsetting ammunition capacity limits. The existing control systems were augmented with new electronic countermeasure equipment, while the spaced armor was replaced by layers of composite material. The rear of the hull was fitted with launch rails for four 9K123 'Khrizantema' anti-tank guided missiles.

**The war widens**

The first buyer for the Spug 2 was the Dutch-Danish United Front, which used the new hovercrafts to bolster their Leopard tanks in the grueling trans-channel campaign. The new Spugs also played a crucial role in the Shanxi New Communist Party's victory against the Aru-Japanese Alliance at the Battle of Taiyuan on 10-12 April 2017. Senior figures inside the Alliance subsequently accused the Sino-Arumic Liaison of tacitly approving or even facilitating Eto Delo's sale of the Spugs to Shanxi.

_[Caption: A New Communist Spug 2E escorts Eto Delo's 1943 Tiger I tank, _Big Willy_, after the Battle of Taiyuan. Colonel Kang Li is visible in the Tiger's commander hatch.]_

The Spug sold well, undergoing continuous incremental improvement as the war progressed. Large numbers were supplied to Arume-administered Kazakhstan to support the campaign against the Islamic Works Front, and to the Republic of Alaska and Republic of California and Southern Oregon during the prelude to the American reunification campaign. Spugs saw action in every theater of operations during 2018 and beyond, and made up a large percentage of Arume ground armor on both sides after the Sisters' Schism in 2021.

_[Caption: A Hong Kong Provisional Port Authority Spug 2W provides perimeter security as the damaged battlecruiser ACS _Blue_ is towed into Victoria Harbor following Operation Mobius.]_

Postwar technological improvements gradually surpassed the Spug's advantages. The surviving units were progressively relegated to second-line and then reserve status. By the beginning of the 2030s most had been scrapped, sold as surplus or donated to less advanced nations. The volume produced and the abundant supply of spare parts, however, make it highly likely that the Spug will continue to appear on battlefields well into the second half of the 21st century.

_[Caption: Dutch and Danish Spug 2s maneuver between rows of abandoned Mi-6 helicopters and ZiL trucks in an irradiated vehicle graveyard near Pripyat, Ukraine. 27 Spugs were sent to support the Ukrainian defense against Operation Divine Hammer.]_

**Variants**

_Main article: Vehicles based on the Self-Propelled Utility Gun_

**Operators**

_Main article: Operators of the Self-Propelled Utility Gun_

**Specifications**

_This section of the article is missing or incomplete. Can you fix it?_

**Popular culture**

The Spug was prominently featured in Otori Hayabusa's long-running manga _Panzer Shoujo Maki_ and its animated adaptations. In the _Panzer Shoujo_ universe, the design is named 'StuG V' and built by Henschel using technology captured from the mysterious Invaders.

_[Caption: A scene from episode 16 of the _Panzer Shoujo_ anime: Maki and her Magietruppe watch the StuG V field trials.]_

The Spug's ubiquity and distinctive appearance made it an icon of the Second Layer War, much as the M4 Sherman and M1 Abrams had been during the 20th century. It remains a staple of war films set between 2016 and 2025, as well as a popular prop among historical reenactment groups.

[Links (Expand+)]

[Search Contact Site Policy]

Page accessed on 30 August 2038 19:04:16 UTC


	23. Where are Monsters in Dreams?

(I'd like to take a moment to thank all the readers, here and elsewhere, whose support has kept this story going.)

_The fact that this airtel is dated on Halloween day is purely coincidental; it could have been worse, and dated on the first of April._ – FBI communique pertaining to Majestic-12 documents, October 1991

_Part 21: Where are Monsters in Dreams?_

It probably wasn't a coincidence that _Blue_'s alarm tone was reminiscent of a whale's call. _"Warning,"_ the shipboard AI intoned, _"warning... Emil Force Drive rotations increasing. Chamber pressure reaching critical levels. Damage to ship imminent..."_

The recorded voice of the mainframe repeated its doleful warnings as the flickering holographic ghost of Onomil glided across the cavernous engine room. Azanael already knew what came next.

_"Onomil! Can you hear me, Onomil? It's too dangerous, fall back!"_

The petite navigator payed the voice no heed as she settled into position at the emergency control terminal. "The commander's... I have to protect Commander Ekaril's ship..." Her fingers frantically danced across the keyboard. "Rotations increasing, pressure rising... but why?"

_"Onomil, it's not safe! Come on!"_

"This is it! The excess is flowing back through the bypass channels!"

_"Onomil, move!"_

"This mechanism almost looks like..."

_"Onomil, there's no time! Get out of there!"_

"Commander... Commander, this ship is – !"

She never finished the sentence. The hologram projectors recreated the sequence with agonizing fidelity: the port and starboard external manifolds explosively ruptured almost simultaneously, flooding the control booth with superheated coolant. There was nothing left of Onomil but a tarnished golden pendant lying in a pool of reddish slag.

"Onomil..!" A strangled sob escaped Azanael as she buried her face in her hands. "Why? Why do I have to see this again?"

Tsubael wasn't there to offer hollow words of comfort this time, and Azanael's voice disturbed a tomb's silence. The oppressive stillness about the place weighed more and more heavily on her senses until at last she fled to the exit, desperate to put the feeling of suffocation behind her. Her boots pounded the deck plates as she navigated the empty depths of the ship by memory, unerringly hurrying towards the place in this cursed hulk where her persistent attachment was anchored: room B5037 in the crew quarters block.

_Onomil's room._

The door was already open when she arrived, the twisted and charred control circuits left exposed after Tsubael attacked them with a plasma torch. Azanael didn't touch the hologram projector on the desk inside: she'd seen the recording enough times. Instead she sprawled on the round bed with a moan of despair.

_"Why?"_

The question elicited a giggle. Startled, Azanael sat up to find the diminutive figure of Onomil standing in the doorway. Her blue-green eyes shimmered with open amusement. "Are you fretting by yourself again?"

That clinched it. "This can't be real," Azanael sighed, sinking back onto the sheets. "I'm dreaming."

"Dreaming?" Onomil padded towards her lover, a wily smile playing about her lips. "You're alone and dreaming you're with me?" She climbed onto the bed and, meeting no resistance, mounted the large woman. "Or are you really here with me and dreaming that you're alone?"

"But..." The pilot frowned, trying to ignore the shiver of anticipation which ran through her as Onomil straddled her waist. "You're dead..."

"Silly." The navigator leaned forwards, placing her hands on her partner's shoulders. "I was here all along, waiting for you, but you... You were too full of hate to see me."

There was no accusation in the words, but there didn't need to be: Azanael knew it was the truth. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so, so sorry..."

"I know." Onomil leaned forward and kissed Azanael's forehead. Her fingers toyed with the collar of the bigger woman's bodysuit. "Can I..?"

All the tension dispersed from the pilot's body. This was how it should be, the two of them together as they once had been... What did it matter if she _were_ dreaming? "Please..."

"Get away from her, you _bitch!"_

A burst of strobing light dazzled Azanael's vision, her ears hearing only a stuttering, quasi-electronic squeal. She blinked, struggling to see past the afterimage burned into her retinas. Onomil was withering away, dissolving from head to toes into an ephemeral white mist: naught but an Emil Force projection, sustained by Azanael's own fantasies.

"What..!?"

The flesh-and-blood Arume's eyes snapped to the door. Akane stood there, silhouetted against the brighter lights of the corridor. It was the adult Akane whom Azanael knew so well, but she was clad in the knight's costume she'd worn as a teenager, on the day they first met. She cradled an automatic rifle with a chunky brown housing. "It's game time." Akane jerked her head backwards. "Come on."

Azanael pushed herself off the bed, utterly baffled by this turn of events. "What's going on?"

"We got problems." The forime started down the passageway, a badly confused Arume in tow, and entered the nearest primary elevator.

"Akane," Azanael repeated as the lift's doors closed behind her, frustration mounting, "what are you talking about?"

"Haven't you noticed something's wrong?" Akane jabbed the button for the fourth deck. "Something that's out of place?"

"I don't know what to think any more..."

"Does anyone?" The elevator came to a halt and Akane stepped out. It dimly registered in Azanael's mind that they were now heading for the mess hall, though context and significance remained beyond reach. "Well, we're here," Akane announced curtly as the mess doors parted before her. "See for yourself."

Azanael followed Akane into the wide room and immediately wished she hadn't: Renaril sat weeping on the floor in front of her, tightly clutching the severed head of Kang Li. The Chinese woman's dismembered torso lay on the nearest table, her hacked-off limbs and entrails piled on the plates of those who sat on either side. Azanael recognized Daebaril, Benacirael, Spiegel and Isobael among them. The pilot turned away, hurriedly clapping a hand over her own mouth before whatever was in her stomach could make a bid for freedom. In doing so, her eyes happened to fall on the plaque beside the door. It was a navigational aid, one of many placed throughout the ship, but the schematics and labels were gone. In their place Azanael saw only a single macabre directive, repeated over and over: _EAT PEOPLE._

"Akane, why – "

_Birrrrrrrrt!_ An arm-length tongue of flame erupted from the weapon's muzzle as the forime swept it over the oblivious cannibals' backs, sending shreds of pink flesh and showers of white blood flying everywhere. _Birrrrrt-birrt-birrt-birrrrrrrrrrrrrt! Birrrrrrrit-birrrrrut-bibirrrt-birrt-birrt-birrt! ...Shrick-shack! Toomph!_

The grenade's explosion knocked out two of the overhead lights and sent part of a gore-caked tabletop tumbling. Azanael squeezed her eyes shut, clamped her hands over her ears and waited for the explosions to end. Akane lost no time in reducing the mess to a wreckage-strewn cavern weakly lit by flickering, sparking circuits. "I told you there was something wrong," she concluded flatly. "You understand now, don't you? What has – _uuurgh!"_

Azanael almost screamed as the shimmering metallic spike pierced Akane's chest from behind. Its base was connected to – no, seamlessly merged with – the extended forearm of Onomil, who stood blank-faced in the doorway and looked not at all the worse for having been blasted to bits. There was a harsh clatter as the pulse rifle fell to the deck, its ammo counter displaying a cold crimson pair of zeroes, and then the spike withdrew.

"..!"

"That's not nice." The cloying saccharine quality had left Onomil's voice. Her hand shot out, clamping around Azanael's throat, and she threw the pilot to the floor with a strength the real Onomil could never have possessed. "Running away with _her_ and leaving me all alone... Have you forgotten your promise?"

"Promise..?" Azanael tried to push herself away from the apparition, only to be grabbed by her ankles. "Uwah!"

"That's right." Onomil knelt and pried her squirming victim's thighs apart. "A promise to have lots of beautiful babies."

"No..." All struggle proved futile as the false Onomil's fingers slipped under the nadir of Azanael's uniform, roughly stroking her softest parts. _"No!"_ Tears welled up as the intruder pushed inside. "Please... Please don't – "

_Pachachacha!_

Onomil jerked sideways. Suddenly there seemed to be a cluster of silver flowers erupting from the skin under her left arm.

_Pachachachachachachacha! Pachachachachachacha!_

More flowers bloomed in rapid sequence. The impostor fell away from Azanael, slumping heavily on the deck. The terrified Arume flung herself backwards, trying to get as far from her assailant as possible, but didn't get far before her back collided with the doorframe. Escape through the mess was plainly impossible now that it was knee-deep in corpses and smashed benches, small fires already flickering here and there among the rubble.

_Tap-clank-tap-clank-tap-clank..._

Azanael's head snapped around. The hulking figure of Roland Schuhart was limping towards her, a dot of red glowing in the ruined pit of his right eye. The lower part of his left leg was torn and bloodied, a metal skeleton gleaming in the gaps where flesh was gone altogether. An empty Thompson magazine hit the floor and was left behind as he approached. Ignoring Azanael, he seized Onomil by the upper arm and hurled her across the burning mess.

"You..."

"She'll be back." There was no emotion in Schuhart's voice as he pulled the woman to her feet. "Go to the bridge if you want to live."

"What..?"

Something stirred beyond the veil of smoke. The cyborg reloaded with cold efficiency. "Go – _now!"_

As if on cue, the general alarm sounded again: _"Warning, warning... T-minus fifteen-point-one-nine-three-seven-nine-two-one-zero-two-one-five-eight-E-plus-nine years until the universe closes..."_

Azanael couldn't take any more. She ran headlong down the long passageway, back the way she'd come, shutting out the gunfire behind her. Shots gave way to sounds of a violent physical struggle as she reached the elevator and practically dove inside. The machine lurched upwards promptly when commanded, affording her precious moments of security. _I want to go home,_ she thought numbly. _Home!_

Then the bottom fell out.

Azanael plummeted an indeterminate distance, landed on an uneven surface and tumbled down a dirt slope. Rolling onto her back with a pained cough, she saw plumes of fire-lit smoke wafting overhead. A starry sky was faintly visible beyond the pollution. As she sat up, the pilot discovered she was at the bottom of a large crater... and she definitely wasn't aboard _Blue_ any more. She started to climb up the wall of the pit, only to frantically press herself against it when she heard a loud, mechanical grinding noise approach. Looking upward, Azanael saw the green flank of a heavy tracked vehicle rumble past the crater's lip, sending little stones and clumps of dirt tumbling down. It left a stench of diesel exhaust in its wake.

The machine was followed by men, some in brown caps and others in round helmets. One of them was rancorously singing: _"...Pust' yaaarost' blagorodnaya... Vskipaaaaaet, kak volnaaaaa! ...Idyot voina narodnaya... Svyashcheeeeennaya voina..."_

Azanael waited until the soldiers were some ways from herself, then gingerly clawed her way to the top. Another rude shock awaited her there: she really _was_ home – not Akane's restaurant, where she'd go to decompress in between rush weeks, but the quiet farming community in which she was born half a century ago. It didn't look as she remembered it, though, with the houses reduced to rubble-strewn shells and dancing flames eagerly consuming whatever remained.

Looking down the street, she spotted the SU-100 and its noisy entourage taking a left at the corner. That left one front clear. Looking the other way, she made out the forms of more infantry coming her way and realized she really didn't want to stay in the crater any longer. Judging the alley across from her to be a place of relative safety, she furtively hurried to it and melted into the shadows. Azanael had to feel her way forwards, cautiously edging between obstacles. The last one, a section of wall fallen outward so that it rested against the face of the structure opposite it, forced her to crawl on hands and knees in order to pass.

Sticking her head out of the far end, the pilot encountered a new horror: a naked Arume lay on the pavement not far away, a bare-legged soldier above her. The female's head lolled to the side, glassy eyes staring blankly. Each thrust of the man's hips elicited a feeble whimper. He seemed to be getting a lot of encouragement from his compatriots across the way, most of them sitting on or leaning against the IS-2 parked there. For a long moment Azanael simply stared in shock, then shuffled back into hiding. She stood no chance against bayonets and submachine guns, and if she couldn't find another route –

"Got you."

The false Onomil's chilling giggle sounded close behind while iron-hard tendrils snaked around Azanael's arms and legs, wholly immobilizing her. Her suit was stretched and torn asunder by the constricting coils encircling her torso, leaving her helpless when the probing members forcefully invaded mouth, vagina and anus in unison. She wanted to cry out but could only gag as a slithering chill spread through her churning insides.

_"Eep!"_

Azanael awoke not with a scream, but a whimper. Once her pulse had gone down a little and her gasps subsided into weary sighs, she rolled onto her side and blindly reached for the alarm clock on the table besides the bed. Her fumbling knocked _The Complete Lu Xun_, _The Soviet and Russian Armed Forces 1945-2010_ and _The Atlas of 20th Century War_ onto the carpeted floor before she located the clock. Its liquid crystal display shone a soft cyan and generated a faint buzzing whine when she mashed the largest button: 3:08 AM here in Japan, an hour ahead of her station in Guangzhou and an hour behind her coming destination, Vladivostok.

The nightmare had left her limbs slick with sweat, and the room was by now quite stuffy. The Arume carefully padded across to the window and eased it open, admitting a lukewarm breeze. It wasn't enough: a damp bodysuit pooled on the floor, leaving the woman standing nude in the soothing current. She tipped her head back, eyes closed, and focused on controlling her inner disquiet.

_I can't go on like this._

She rarely remembered her dreams as more than jumbled fragments or impressions, but she loathed them all the same. Elaqebil's movie nights weren't having a positive effect on her nocturnal psyche, which was already stressed by the demands of her recent duties. She might be able to skip the upcoming screenings – Elaqebil had more Cameron films listed for the next two weeks before moving on to Coppola – but she still had to get through the final episode of _Ostfront_ in the meantime.

The real problem lay deeper than that, though, and she knew what she needed to do. In truth she'd known for a long time, but her courage had always failed her.

_Akane..._

* * *

Ikari Shinji woke up on the morning of April 24th with a profound sense of there being something very wrong with the world looming over him. He dressed, combed his hair and brushed his teeth without figuring out what it might be, then went downstairs. There was nobody in the modest house except himself, but that was a depressingly common state of affairs on Sundays, so it couldn't be the cause of his worry.

He found a note on the dining room table, a short message in his father's distinct scrawl: _Shinji, your mother and I have been called into headquarters. There's some breakfast in the refrigerator. Call Colonel Katsuragi if there are any problems._

Shinji's father was still commander of Nerv despite all that had transpired during his tenure, but he wasn't the same man who had first called the boy to Tokyo-3. He went clean-shaven now, wore glasses with untinted lenses and was actually _nice_ to his son when he thought nobody was looking. Still, that wasn't it.

Shinji's mother was another story. After spending the majority of the boy's formative years as no more than a vital spark inside a monstrous war machine, she hadn't yet entirely adjusted to being yanked back into a physical existence, her elaborate plans for the future rudely rendered moot by unforeseen consequences. That wasn't it either.

Touji would be off with his girlfriend and Kensuke had been all but impossible to find for the last few weeks. Asuka was still in Germany and he hadn't gotten a letter from her since the end of March. That left Itsuki, poor conversation partner though the mute was, or familiar solitude. Shinji pondered his options as he ate, deciding at last to just get his camera and wander the city for a bit.

The morning sun shone strong over Tokyo-3 as Shinji left home and headed south towards the heart of the community. Even today he could hear the distant chatter of jackhammers as refugee laborers diligently earned their keep by repairing the devastated districts. Perhaps he should pay them a visit later, since their domain was Itsuki's as well, but right now it was shaping up to be a good time for a walk to the lake.

The feeling of trouble nagged at him as he ambled through the streets, yet he seemed no closer to divining its genesis. The weather was fine, his camera batteries were charged and he had no onerous Eva-related duties to look forward to, so just _what_ was bothering him? He was so engrossed in this problem that he almost walked right into the tall woman standing at the next corner, catching himself just in time. Words like _statuesque_ and _well-proportioned_ ran through his head before he realized he'd narrowly averted a collision with an Arume.

Shinji had seen only a few of the alien females in Tokyo-3 in the long weeks since that first shuttle landed in front of him, and he'd instinctively steered clear of those individuals. This one, unlike the others, was dressed like a tourist: white t-shirt, khaki shorts, backpack and sneakers. She held a paper map in her hands and looked as startled by the sudden encounter as he himself felt. "Excuse me," the boy fumbled, hoping this wasn't his first meeting with one who couldn't speak Japanese, "are you lost?"

"No." Her voice was surprisingly deep. "That is..." She turned the map around so that he could see it. "What's the best way to get to here?"

"The hot springs? Well, you follow this street until you get to the auto repair center, then you make a left and follow that road out of the city. It runs right past the springs."

"I see. Thank you."

The alien folded the map and went her own way, leaving Shinji to carry on. Her manner struck him as skittish, now that he reflected on it, but he could understand that – he well remembered the day the refugees, who welcomed him as if he were one of their own children, turned away the Arume delegation at bayonet point.

_Wait... That's it!_

The bothersome mystery was suddenly clear as day, but before he could make more of it, he ran headlong into another tall woman. "Oof..!"

"Ikari Shinji?"

Shinji craned his neck, a chill scurrying up his spine. "Sh... Shinano-san..."

Colonel Shinano looked particularly unhappy today. "Shinji, have you seen my son?"

"I haven't seen Itsuki-kun today, sorry."

"Neither has anyone else," the SSDF officer replied grimly. "He left the Wakamiya home this morning and disappeared. They told me he took his sword – not the practice one... I'm afraid he might be trying to reach Hiratsuka."

* * *

"Why did you want to meet me here?"

"Why not?" Tsubael settled into the water with a contented sigh. "There aren't any good springs where you're posted, right?"

Azanael entered the pool with trepidation. "I wouldn't have time anyway," she opined, immersing herself up to shoulder level. "I'm lucky to have even one day off."

"You're in demand." The smaller Arume stretched her arms. "Well, congratulations on having your rank reinstated."

"Mm..."

"So what's next for the Liaison now that General Lin is out of the way?" the ex-navigator asked impishly. "More high adventure?"

'Adventure' was too mild a word for the operation Kang Li had devised to neutralize her opponent, a plan which one week and one night ago placed Azanael and five others in the cockpits of the most rickety aircraft the flight chief had ever seen. They were Chinese copies of a seventy year old Soviet biplane, fitted with wooden propellers and canvas-covered wings, and their very primitiveness was their greatest strength: the mission was launched from a dirt runway constructed in mere hours, supported by barely more than a truck carrying a battery charger and drums of fuel.

"I suppose," Azanael sighed at length. Against her expectations – no thanks to Elaqebil, who convinced Renaril that all twelve episodes of _Currahee_ must be included in the training curriculum – Kang's stratagem worked perfectly. Not a shot was fired as the biplanes silently glided over the drop zone, their slow, flimsy profiles offering such weak radar signatures that Lin's early warning crew hadn't realized what was going on until the paratrooper sticks descended on their heads.

"The edited highlights have been making the rounds at Cent-Intel, but it's mostly second and third wave stuff. No glory for the brave pathfinders."

Not that the second wave's pilots and crews had failed to earn their time in the limelight. Dawn was just breaking when their four-engine transports – Chinese derivatives, like the biplanes, of an Antonov design – reached hostile territory. They scattered numerous parachutists over the enemy's land, but these planes also dropped a swarm of fighting vehicles to clear a path for the third wave, the heavy tanks and mechanized infantry.

The veteran pilot shook her head. "We were just doing our jobs. The people who had to _jump_ were the brave ones."

"I bet." Tsubael's expression turned contemplative. "So... is it true none of the jumpers were Arume?"

"Yes." Azanael stretched her legs, sinking just a bit deeper. "There weren't any who qualified."

"I hear the Liaison is pretty short-charged all around," the smaller woman remarked with a touch of sourness. "Renaril had to buy the operation's BMDs from the creeps in Hong Kong, didn't she?"

"That's right." Azanael had to admit there was a certain perverse genius about those miniature tanks which dropped straight onto the battlefield with their crews on board. They were also amphibious, a feature the Russian deliverymen gleefully demonstrated by navigating one across the Pearl delta. "We did get a thirty-percent discount."

"Because of the _special relationship_, I'm sure." Tsubael submerged herself deep enough to blow bubbles for a few moments. "Do you see much of Eto Delo at work now?"

"Only the technical assistants." _And select weirdos,_ the pilot mentally amended as images of Keiko and the Darwin brothers flashed before her eyes. "I haven't had any problems with them."

"Command has a problem with them," Tsubael said quietly. "Sometimes it feels like they're downright terrified." She put on a cheerier face, but it took evident effort. "Eh, why are we talking about this on your day off? Let's just relax."

_Easier said than done,_ Azanael thought with a touch of irritation. _Terrified, are they?_

She could almost believe it. The Arume outreach missions in the third layer had produced more losses than profits, and for a time it seemed inevitable that the China front would be the biggest loss of all. Renaril and Colonel Kang were salvaging the mess little by little, so that in itself couldn't be what the Arume high command was worried about. They should and would be worried about the wild card, Eto Delo, and the humiliating precedents the organization defiantly set, but this Arume was convinced they also had darker concerns.

"Tsubael," she said awkwardly, unsure of a safe way to approach the subject, "have you... heard any rumors about a conspiracy?"

The other stiffened. "Please don't tell me you've been doing something that could get you in trouble."

"I haven't." It was the truth, more or less. "While I was in Hong Kong, I had a run-in with an... intelligence operative who intimated that there's something the Council wants kept quiet."

There was an awkward silence as Tsubael regarded Azanael with uncharacteristic wariness. "Okay," she said at length, slouching forwards in the water, "but keep this _strictly_ to yourself, understand?" When the pilot nodded, she sat back against a flat rock at the pool's edge. "You remember that pesky document, _Who are the Arume?_"

"I've read it."

"Obviously Cent-Intel wants to know where that came from, but the trail is completely cold. The source file originated in this planet's civilian Internet, disseminated by somebody using the name 'Majestic Seven'."

"That's it?"

"I wish." Tsubael folded her arms. "At the same time that file was released into the networks, another document with the same style and format was transmitted to us by a person or group calling themselves 'Majestic Nine'. The document's title was _What are the Evangelions?_"

"Evangel... Some kind of super weapon, right?"

"Exactly, a biomechanical super weapon unique to this layer... Officially they've all been destroyed and the forime governments are still squabbling over whatever is left of the project. It seems these things are extremely expensive, but we must absolutely watch out for attempts to rebuild them."

Azanael frowned. A double leak meant somebody didn't want _either_ side to have an advantage. "Who would do this? Why?"

Tsubael shrugged. "If I knew that, I'd be more than a lowly analyst. We think the senders' aliases are a reference to an old forime hoax called 'Majestic Twelve', secret research on flying cups or some such thing, but that hasn't given us any useful insights."

"I see." _You have no idea._ "And that's everything you know?"

"You know I don't have especially high clearance."

"It's enough." _And it's even worse than I thought._ "Thanks."

"Just as long as this doesn't come back to bite me... So anyway," the former _Blue_ officer added brightly, "what about these rumors concerning Renaril and Kang, hm? Are they... doing it?"

"I doubt that," said Azanael bluntly, trying not to appear overly grateful for the change in subject. "Renaril's definitely interested, but the colonel is a complete professional. She's even busier than I am."

"No time for love, huh? I gather she's quite disciplined."

"She is, but..." The large Arume bit her lip. "The colonel didn't go straight from cadet cadre to officer training like Renaril or Elaqebil... or like you and me. She has experienced things I've only ever watched on a screen."

"Every account I've read says the Chinese intervention in Cambodia was a disaster," Tsubael agreed. "A woman who survived that has got to be worth something."

"Yes..." Azanael desperately wanted to spill her guts, to tell Tsubael about Kataphel and Isanil and Phil and all the rest of the sordid affair, but she couldn't forget that pleading look the sapper had given her when they last parted.

"I'm glad Kang is on our side," was all she uttered.


	24. Arctic Artemis

_Part 22: Arctic Artemis_

_Rovaniemi, Finland_

_Second Universal Layer_

_April 12th, 2016_

They used to say that this was the hometown of Santa Claus. Mickey MacFarlane could have believed it, what with the unusual cold and the thick snow blanketing everything, were it not for the patently pulverized condition of the place. The Rovaniemi he beheld now was a throwback to the near-total destruction wrought by the Nazis in 1944, and the last six weeks had earned it a new sobriquet: _Stalingrad of the North._

The battle for control of the ravaged community was symbolic as much as strategic. Rovaniemi had been the nominal capital of Finland ever since the fall of Kaliningrad and evacuation of Helsinki, though the remnants of government had fled further into the Lapland wilderness two months ago. Now a ragtag mix of soldiers – Finnish, Swedish, Norwegian, Russian and innumerable others – and volunteers from afar like Mickey himself pitted their strength against an enemy which was steadfastly assimilating the rest of the world.

Here, where two rivers met just below the arctic circle, the Arume faced the eternal foe which had undone Napoleon and Hitler in centuries past: _cold._ One of the lascivious aliens' diverse instruments of terror had altered the global climate, disrupting winds and currents deeply enough to bring about a rise in sea levels, but it also brought a miniature ice age upon northern Europe. Here the kaijin hardened into frozen statues outside their host waters, the gosta were chilled into pitiable squibs and the thought-materializing weapons simply failed to materialize. Facing a resilient enemy who fought with a solid home field advantage, the Arume now sent wave after wave of collaborator troops to crush one of the last nations openly resisting their new world order.

The lines of control had surged back and forth unpredictably since the start of the battle. At present the north and west suburbs were in the control of the defenders, operating from camps entrenched in the outlying woods, but downtown remained contested and mostly empty owing to a shortage of surface-to-air missiles. The Arume held a strip of land along the southern river, with a hazardous dead zone between the fronts. So it was that Mickey and his companions met only a handful of scouts and lookouts as they skied through the streets in single file, snug in their white parkas and thick gloves. They were led by a burly man named Aimo, a Russian woman called Yelena and an Australian of questionable sanity at his back. Mickey himself followed Phil in fourth place, with a second Finn, Erkki, bringing up the rear.

Their destination on this fine evening was the north side of Rovaniemi's railway station. It was relatively intact – the Arume at least understood the value of functional rail transit – but lay smack in the middle of no man's land. The five sank into a sort of hunched shuffle for the last leg of their advance, minimizing their profiles until they at last were sheltered by the twisted wreck of a bus – at the corner of the streets marked 'Ratakatu' and 'Tievakatu', if Mickey remembered the map correctly – overlooking the rail yard. Acting in silence according to the established plan, they removed their skis and crawled inside.

"Marjatta!" Aimo's voice was barely above a whisper. "What news?"

"Same as before," the heap of snow at the far end replied.

It seemed that the enemy intended to occupy the station under cover of dark, but their probing had not gone unnoticed... and now it would not go unopposed. Aimo had a terse – and to Mickey, unintelligible – radio conversation with headquarters before motioning for the others to set up.

"How many?" Yelena queried.

"One alien and nine men, holed up beside the flooring store... Is that the replacement?" the hidden woman added indifferently.

"Yeah, mate." Phil conjured up a pocket periscope and slowly raised it over the edge of an empty window frame. "Our dinkum Canuck prodigy."

"Hm."

Yelena stretched out with her Dragunov, aiming through a tear in the vehicle's bodywork. "We wait?"

"They will move soon," Marjatta declared. "We'll take them when they expose themselves."

"Roight." Phil mimicked the Russian, cheerily popping the rubber caps off his own scope. "Who's up for I-Spy?"

The others ignored him. Mickey looked around, saw that the best free vantage point was between Aimo and Marjatta, and crawled to it. "MacFarlane, was it?" the latter asked.

"Yeah."

There was a rustle, but the snowdrift moved not at all. "Accuracy International?"

"That's right."

"What's your backup?"

"Uh... Glock nine millimeter." _Why the third degree right now?_

"Not enough." Something emerged from the snow. "Take this."

Mickey unwrapped the rag to find it contained an ancient submachine gun with a gouged wooden stock and a barrel shroud that looked as if it had been hammered from sheet metal on a garage workbench. The contraption was accompanied by a stack of flat drum magazines in a threadbare canvas pouch. "Um..."

"I 'ope that ain't wot I think it is," Phil muttered.

Mickey was on the verge of asking what he meant when Aimo pulled the thing from his grasp, glanced at the serial number and handed it back. "It is."

Yelena made what might have been a sound of pity. "What count now?"

"Eighth," was Marjatta's only reply.

"Eighth?" Mickey looked to one side, then the other. "Eighth _what?"_

"You are the eighth to possess that weapon since the Arume reached Rovaniemi," Erkki intoned solemnly. "Five of ours and two of the enemy have carried it... Every time the bearer was killed, and every time someone found the weapon and brought it back. Some of the men say it's cursed."

"You're making that up."

"No, mate... Oy, so wot 'appened to Sven?"

"Dead," Marjatta answered bluntly. "The skirmish at Cafe Tivoli."

Phil swore under his breath. "Another good bloke gone... I owed 'im a crackin' big drink, too."

Mickey, meanwhile, could find nothing obviously wrong with the purportedly jinxed firearm. "So... does this thing work?"

"Of course."

Marjatta's tone suggested that the newcomer was impertinent to question her recommendation, so he let the matter drop. Minutes crept by while the watchers lay still and observed as the sun dipped to touch the horizon. Nights were short at this time of year, and soon there would be almost no darkness at all.

The coarse brown stubble on Mickey's face was beginning to itch under his balaclava when the situation changed: "They're moving." There was a crisp _click-click_ under the snow heap. "The Arume is mine."

Mickey snugged the stock against his cheek and lightly rested his finger on the trigger. He could see the enemy on the far side of the tracks, moving right to left at an acute angle without zigzagging or bounding from cover to cover. The collaborators he'd faced in Scotland and Norway were smarter than this... Or maybe it was because they hadn't been stuck with an impatient, demanding Arume right in their midst. Nobody could mistake that diminutive figure striding at the front, her every move radiating arrogance.

Then there was a short, brisk _crack_ and the diminutive figure folded like an accordion. Mickey was aiming for the apparent squad NCO when he heard a sharp _bang_ from Yelena's direction and the man plowed into the ground. He swung his reticule to the left, locked onto the form of a soldier scrambling towards what might have once been a minivan, and squeezed. _First kill in three weeks,_ the Canadian congratulated himself as he chambered his next round. _Good start._

Phil's voice could be heard over the scrape of bolts cycling: "One glass." _Boomph!_ "Two glass." _Boomph!_ "Three glass." _Boomph!_ "Floor!"

"Targets eliminated," Marjatta reported efficiently. "Cease fire."

Aimo topped off his magazine. "No movement."

"Roight, now let's..." Phil trailed off as a buzz of compact gasoline engines grew in the east. It was answered by a slow, chattering burst of machine gun fire. "Ooh, fuck me sideways," he groaned. "Toime ter bug out, mates!"

"What's – ?"

"Enemy raid," Yelena explained before Mickey could finish asking. "They attack the outpost at jeweler."

"Not just the jeweler." The snowdrift shifted as a short figure in an extra-large parka rolled out from under the tarpaulin hidden beneath it. "They're coming for us as well. Fall back to the guard line."

Taking his cue from the others, Mickey brushed the snow off his front, packed up his rifle and grabbed the submachine gun. He followed Erkki out of the bus as Aimo radioed HQ. Only when he was back outside could he hear what Marjatta's keen ears had picked up: the whine of additional engines coming from the southwest. He was still struggling with his skis when Marjatta and Aimo came out. "Leave them," the man ordered, kicking his own set into the snow beside the bus. "Let's go!"

A bullet whizzed overhead, coming from the direction of the railway station. "Enemy reinforcements!" Marjatta barked. "Take cover!"

Phil did no such thing. "Leave 'em to me," he said, slapping a full magazine into his automatic rifle and flicking a drawstring cover over its telescopic attachment. "KILROOOOOOOYYY!"

The Australian took off, heading for an ice-crusted tanker truck ninety meters to the east. Aimo ignored him and led the others across the road to the relative shelter of the parking lot there. He and Erkki each produced an Uzi from under their parkas and prepared to intercept the motorized intruders. Yelena dug in between them, struggling to install a bulky night sight on the SVD's side rail. Mickey again found himself beside Marjatta, who was already methodically firing at the wave of collaborators across the rail yard.

A muzzle flash off to the left marked Phil's position, not that he was in any way inconspicuous without it: "YER MUM TASTES LOIKE PRAWNS!" _Boomph-boomph-boomph!_ "BIELEFELD DOES NOT EXIST!"

Mickey winced. "What is he _doing?!"_

"A favor." _Crack!_ "Shoot, MacFarlane, don't talk!"

"Right..." The Canadian went to work, giving silent thanks to the quartermaster who had managed to find him a scope with a working illuminated reticule. It was hard enough even with that luxury, yet Marjatta seemed able to score consistent hits while lacking optics or even a free-floated barrel.

"Backup is coming," Aimo announced. "Orders are to hold the position as long as possible."

"Roger." Marjatta slotted a five-round charger into her rifle and stripped the cartridges off it with one clean stroke of her thumb. "Yelena, bogies?"

The Russian aimed along the westward road. "Two speeders, fast approach... Engaging."

Mickey heard three shots, then a whooshing noise. Glancing to the side, he saw a sheet of fire gushing towards the sky. The second speeder was briefly silhouetted as it passed in front of the burning first. It looked similar to the models the sniper had encountered in Norway: an oversized snowmobile with thin armor and fuel tanks placed where any competent marksman with a supply of armor-piercing incendiary rounds could light them up in a frontal attack.

A frontal attack was precisely what Yelena and the Dragunov gave it. The speeder left a comet's tail of flame and smoke as it slewed towards the team's position, coming to rest less than twenty meters away. The main threat was thus eradicated, but the wreck posed another problem for the defenders: cook-off hazards aside, the fire's brilliant glow negated both their camouflage and their low-light vision. "Displace," Marjatta ordered, shuffling to the left.

Figures in thick uniforms clambered from the flaming wreck as she moved, desperate to escape the blaze. The Finn fired without stopping, striking one in the gut, and he tumbled into the snow with a scream. Yelena tagged the second as he jumped clear of the speeder. The third hastily raised his hands above his head. "Nicht schiessen! Nicht schiessen! Ich – "

The PPSh spewed a stream of brass casings into the air, the tongues of flame from its crude muzzle brake drawing a stroboscopic three-leaf clover in the twilight. Mickey poured a couple dozen rounds into his hapless opponent, then hosed the ground until the bolt closed on an empty chamber and the cries of the wounded were extinguished. Aimo and company passed without comment.

Phil, meanwhile, was still alive and still the very model of a modern major maniac. "THAT'S FER ME BROTHER!" _Boomph!_ "THAT'S FER ME AUNT MOLLY!" _Boomph!_ "THAT'S FER ME AUNT MOLLY'S CAT TIDDLES!" _Boomph!_ "THAT'S FER ME COUSIN FRANK AN' HIS – _oof!"_ The rhythm of shots came to an abrupt end. "I'm 'it!"

"MacFarlane." Marjatta of course had seen it coming and planned accordingly. "Go help him."

Mickey rolled his eyes. _MacFarlane, take this gun. MacFarlane, shoot those guys. MacFarlane, run over to McDonald's and get some burgers._ He obeyed anyway, the lingering splotches burned into his retinas by his own shooting rendering him a less than fully capable sniper for the moment. Erkki took his spot as he scooted down the line, trading a depleted drum for another seventy-odd drops of death.

The Australian had dragged himself out of the line of fire by the time Mickey reached the tanker. "It ain't too bad," he offered, pressing a hand over the front of his lower right leg. "Spare a crutch?"

"Hold still," the Canadian muttered, searching his own pockets. _Where's that field dressGUNSHIP RIGHT FUCKING THERE!_ A frigid blue-white light blinded him completely. There was no time to react before he felt a searing pain in his abdomen and lost all sensation in his lower extremities. He slumped backwards, the Arctic Warfare trapped underneath his half-paralyzed body. _What the hell,_ he thought dazedly. _They didn't do this in Norway..._

The validity of his prior experience was justified moments later, when an ear-pounding blast followed by a terrific impact heralded the gunship's comeuppance. In the comparative quiet which ensued, Mickey became aware of Phil moving laboriously nearby. "Mickey," he called hoarsely. "Mickey, talk ter me!"

"Ugh..." Mickey shook his head from side to side, blinking weakly. "I can't... I can't move..."

"Shit." _Click._ "Hold on!"

Mickey couldn't hear anything from Aimo and the others, but raising his head gave him a murky view of the Arume craft which had dropped onto the street in front of him like a huge white brick. It lay not quite on an even keel, its undercarriage indisputably pulverized. The sight gave him a surge of hope, as it signaled the approach of reinforcements with superior firepower. Not a moment too soon, either: as he watched, a hatch on the side of the gunship was knocked loose from the inside.

Phil promptly took aim. "Rack off, yah bleach-'eaded wankettes!"

This time Mickey was alert enough to close his eyes before the huge silver pistol in the other man's hands discharged. Turning his face away, he located his submachine gun and did his best to shake the powdery snow off of it. Phil might have the crashed craft covered, and the tanker offered considerable shelter, but they could still be overrun by the enemy if they weren't relieved soon. The very real danger that Mickey might bleed out in the meantime was lost in the hubbub.

A shrill whistle filled the air, the sound of rockets passing overhead. They reached apogee over the heads of the collaborator troops, each deploying a piercing white parachute flare. As the flares drifted, throwing long, sharply defined shadows around Mickey, he heard the buzz-saw roar of machine guns to the east. It was a distinctive and familiar sound, but not a reassuring one – both sides used the same model extensively. "Our side or theirs?" he wondered aloud.

"Ours," said Phil solemnly. "Our savior who art belt-fed, in steel be thy form, smite thine enemies not less than twelve hundred times per minute..."

"Heh... Heh-heh..."

The humor soon fizzled. Phil seized his rifle by the barrel, planted the butt on the ground and pushed himself upright. "Ngh..! Hrrrrrngh! ...Okay, Mickey," he panted, discarding it as he limped towards the hatch, "watch me back!"

The only answer was an incoherent groan. _I feel tired,_ Mickey thought blearily. _Not good..._ Rousing himself, he sluggishly reached for Phil's abandoned longarm. Gloved fingers hooked its sling and drew it closer, leaving a wide furrow in the snow. Having extended his engagement range, at least for a few shots' worth, the crippled man gingerly braced himself and twisted until he was lying on his side. The hand cannon's blasts rang loud in his fatigued ears. _Stay awake, stay awake..._

"Geddowt!" The shout was followed by a muffled impact and a feminine cry. When Phil emerged from the gunship, he was dragging a waif of an Arume by her long pale hair. Mickey caught a glimpse of white blood smeared on the magnum's butt before the other man shoved the alien girl into the lee of the tanker. "Got a slurry fer the inquisition," he said coolly. "If she runs, aim fer the legs."

Mickey nodded, surrendering the AG-3 to its owner before taking the 'cursed' Shpagin in hand and propping himself up on one elbow. He noted with surreal detachment that the cold seemed to have reduced his bleeding. "The others..?"

Phil shook his head without taking his eyes off the prisoner. "It's just you an' me, mate."

"Shit..."

The prisoner wore the standard bodysuit of her race, a garment laughably inadequate for this climate. She stood with her arms wrapped around her slender body, her legs pressed tightly together and her wide blue eyes downcast. She lifted her head slowly as a Russian armored personnel carrier advanced towards the tanker, its boat-shaped green hull carried on eight massive tires. In the glare of its floodlights, Mickey glimpsed a tear on her cheek.

All three knew what her fate would be.

* * *

"Nnn..."

"How do you feel?" a gentle voice asked. "You've had a rough ride... The scanner didn't show anything wrong, but take it easy."

Marjatta blinked. Her heavy outer clothes were gone, leaving her feeling oddly lightweight. She was lying on a circular bed, in a room not designed according to terrestrial aesthetics. "Wha..?"

"That was way too close... Sorry about the knockout needle – I had to get you out of there fast."

The sharpshooter sat up with a jolt. The girl sitting at the desk in front of her had jet-black hair, but her eyes were those of an Arume. "..!"

"Hey, calm down." The stranger raised her hands. She wore some sort of close-fitting armor suit, the helmet of which sat beside the computer terminal on the desk. "I'm on your side, I promise, so please hear me out."

"...What do you want?"

"To make sure the Arume don't kill you, Marjatta Tikkanen... Or shouldn't I say, Wakatake Mari?"

'Marjatta' stiffened. "Who are you?"

The girl rose. "Call me Yui," she said, offering a curtsey. "I traveled a long way to meet you, very nearly in vain."

Mari remembered the blinding light. "The flier..."

"Folded into local space right over your head." Yui leaned over and tapped the terminal's keyboard. "Four-point-seventy-one seconds later, one of your friends' S-tanks got a lock and blew it away."

"The others..?"

"Going by motion analysis from the orbital imagery, the three beside you were killed in the barrage. One of the other two was badly wounded, but the first man who broke off was still fighting. As of last update, elements of Jaeger Brigade were securing the area... I'm sorry, we couldn't get a fix on you until the Arume made their move."

Mari winced. "How did they find me?"

"I'm not sure," Yui confessed. "Maybe someone spotted your face in a recon photo, or it could have been an infiltrator."

"Tch..." Mari's hands balled into trembling fists. _Good people died because of me – again!_

She was surprised when Yui sat down beside her. "It was a good disguise while it worked," the latter consoled. "The Arume didn't expect you to be there... _We_ didn't expect you to be there." The alien cocked her head. "I mean, I heard you were an Arume's lover – "

"For one night." Resentment simmered in Mari's voice. "One night, and then she threw her life away in a pointless gesture."

Yui's eyebrow lifted just slightly. "And for that, you became a soldier?"

Mari picked up her rifle, which Yui had diligently laid beside the bed. "Not a soldier," she corrected, flicking away a bit of detritus, "a hunter."

"A hunter who broke Simo Hayha's record."

"No." Mari absently fiddled with the sight piggybacked on the receiver. "Hayha only needed a hundred days... and he didn't have a precision diopter."

"If you say so."

Standing abruptly, Mari reclaimed the Lahti pistol on the desk. "Enough chatter. How did you know where I was?"

"Originally we followed the string of contacts used by Sugawara Yuko," Yui recounted. "I was able to visit her office before Helsinki was overrun, but it was empty... After that, the trail went cold. We weren't even sure you were still alive until we learned the Arume were hunting you in Rovaniemi. Do you know what happened to her?"

Mari shook her head. "What do you want from me?"

"Like I said, we want to keep you safe... But considering your, er, talents, perhaps we should actually be enlisting your help in our operations." Yui went back to the desk and sat at the terminal. "Take a look at this."

Peering over her shoulder, Mari saw a photograph of a planet – a drop of blue floating in the dark void of space. "That's Earth... isn't it?"

"Not the one you know... This is the third universal layer, your next-door neighbors in the multiverse. It's a little beat up, as you can see, but we're pinning a lot of hopes on it."

"I've heard the rumors, but I didn't think it would be so..." Mari frowned, leaving the sentence unfinished. "What do the Arume want with it?"

"This." Yui pressed a key and the image changed. Now the pair were looking at a grotesque purple and green head, its shape reminiscent of a ceratopsid dinosaur. "It's a semi-organic super weapon, created using a type of exotic matter unknown to Arume science. The forime of the third layer call it an 'Evangelion'."

Mari wrinkled her nose. "It looks like a toy."

"Doesn't it?" Yui laughed briefly. "But its appearance is deceiving. According to the little information we have, a mere handful of these machines can lay waste to an entire world." She turned her face to Mari. "All the existing units were destroyed, but the knowledge and the tools which built them remain on that planet. The Arume want that power for themselves."

"And you want to stop that?"

"It's one of our goals." Yui rolled her head from side to side. "My friends and I are dissidents, in a manner of speaking. You wouldn't know it from the public image, but there _are_ Arume who oppose their race's official policies... Until now they had no voice, no power." She pointed to the parallel Earth. "On that world, they are beginning to craft a better relationship with forime."

Mari would sooner believe in flying swine. "Secretly?"

"Oh no, they're quite open about it... Now, these three are the most promising." Yui brought up three smaller pictures. "Master Commander Mariel – created the theoretical basis for the new model of interaction. Assigned to central Asia, which is a flashpoint on third layer Earth... Master Commander Keldanil – studied with Mariel at the academy, was twice reprimanded over accusations of softness regarding her treatment of forime populations. Assigned to Denmark and the Netherlands, both in severe debt and geographically vulnerable... Group Commander Renaril – a novice, assigned to mainland China." The armored alien tapped the screen. "She's the important one."

"Why?"

"Designated disposable pawn." Yui's lip curled. "The Arume don't have the resources for another all-out invasion, but those at the top enjoy their power... In the third layer, China had been weakened by years of corruption and intrigue. Their plan was to appoint Renaril, then kill her in an attack which would be blamed on the forime. They thought they'd be free to sink their claws deep after that." A new image appeared on the screen. "Luckily for her – and for us – these two got in the way."

Mari scrutinized the pair intently. One was a woman in some sort of dress uniform sans jacket, the other was a large man with a missing eye. They were standing in front of a squat, badly outdated tank: judging by the angle, this telephoto shot had been taken from a rooftop or high window some distance away. "Who are they?"

"The one on the left is Kang Li. She was a colonel in the Chinese army when her government collapsed. Now she's the military brains behind the Sino-Arumic Liaison, which is reuniting the country bit by bit. Renaril is crushing on her big time... The ugly guy is Roland Schuhart, an arms dealer and an old friend of the colonel. After the attack on Renaril failed, Arume command tried to blame it on him."

"And..?"

"They sent in some troops." Yui smirked. "It didn't work out in their favor... They've placated him for the time being with an exclusive contract to supply the Liaison, but he's a wild card. That makes him useful to us."

Mari sat on the bed once more. "So... a power struggle on a new frontier. What's this have to do with me?"

"Remaining in the second layer is too dangerous. The third layer is... It's _less_ dangerous, and you might be able to make a difference there."

"Really." Mari laid her rifle across her knees. "I spent half my life running, hiding and fighting because of your kind. Now you want me to dump my comrades so that I can help you save the Arume from themselves on a world that isn't mine? What good does that do me?"

"What good would it do you to stay here?" Yui countered. "Even if the Arume don't track you down again, what will you have achieved when your barrel is worn smooth and the ocean is at your back?"

"..."

"If the positions were reversed, I don't think Ekaril would hesitate to – "

Mari's eyes narrowed to slits. "What do you know?" she hissed. "What gives you the right to talk about Hagino? Did you even know her?"

"No," the other replied frankly. "I never met her." Suddenly she was right in front of Mari. "But if half the things I've heard about her are true, _you_ have no right to waste the life she gave you in exchange for her own, just so you can satisfy your lust for revenge!" She backed away, her tone softening a little. "I didn't know Ekaril, but _you_ did. You know what she wished for and you have a duty to ensure her death wasn't for nothing."

"I..."

"Maybe I'm pushing you too fast," Yui mused. "Do you want some time to think it over?"

Mari didn't answer immediately. "...If I did go, what would I do there?"

"You'll need a new identity, but the rest is pretty much up to you."

"And what if I wanted to keep working? Just to stay in shape?"

"It could be arranged." Yui sat cross-legged on the floor. "No front-line stuff, though."

Mari sat deep in thought for a minute. "You know," she said finally, "the man who gave me this told me it never saw combat before the invasion." She ran a gentle thumb over the characters stamped on the rifle's body, faintly visible beneath the layer of drab paint which protected the aged metal. _CARL GUSTAFS STADS GEVARSFAKTORI_, they read. _1901_.

Yui's eyes wandered up the sturdy wooden stock to the dark steel nosecap which encircled the barrel. "Gyrojet weapons were the latest trend at home," she remarked curiously. "I don't know much about these things, but wouldn't a shorter model be more convenient?"

"There's always a tradeoff. I traded maneuverability for reduced flash and kick."

"I see." Yui reached over to the desk and picked up a loaded charger. "These bullets are rather small, though, aren't they?"

"Six-point-five millimeter."

The alien popped a cartridge loose, turning it over in her nimble fingers. "You use hollow-nose rounds. I thought there was a forime taboo against that."

"A hunter shoots to kill," Mari replied candidly, "not to let a wounded animal crawl away."

"I suppose," the other conceded. "What about your friend with the incendiaries?"

Mari shrugged. "She wasn't supposed to use them on soft targets."

"Because it's cruel?"

"Because they're expensive."

"You're pragmatic, I see." Yui returned the ammunition. "Have you made your decision?"

"I guess I have... It can't bring Hagino back, but nothing will get better if I don't try, will it?"

"That's right," Yui stated. "Ekaril is dead and one cannot undo what has already occurred." After a moment she added, seemingly to herself, "One can only create a world in which it never happened."


	25. Chatting at the Whampoa Academy

_Part 23: Chatting over Cordite at the Whampoa Academy_

_Sino-Arumic Liaison Provisional Headquarters_

_Guangzhou, Guangdong Province, China_

_April 24th, 2016_

The warbling tone of the portable terminal interrupted what had been shaping up to be a very steamy dream. Renaril lay still for several seconds, her frustrated groans insufficient to overwhelm the aggravating noise, then rolled off the bed, marched to the desk and gave the infernal machine a righteous thump. The alarm went silent and the screen lit up: the Arume's gaze flitted across it, seeing no messages requiring immediate attention. She put the device back into sleep mode, then checked the door to her cramped quarters.

As on many mornings, Colonel Kang was already up and had slipped a note under Renaril's door on her way out: after making the customary checkups, she would be going down to Hong Kong for the remainder of the morning. The paper scrap made no mention of a certain matter which had sprung upon them last night. Now that she thought of it, Renaril's first impulse was to go back to the terminal and open up the article in question. She suppressed that urge: she'd spent enough time looking at it already. Stepping over to the bed, the group commander lay on her back and stretched her arms and legs as far as she could.

Rationally she knew her dream made no sense, however vivid it was. Soldiers of the National Revolutionary Army had no business standing guard in the opulent Ming imperial court, and her sleeping mind seemed unable to picture the Tiananmen gate without Mao Zedong's portrait upon it. The setting of the nocturnal fantasy was a hodgepodge stitched together from the stack of historical dramas Elaqebil had dug up for her young friend. The flow of events, however, was born of Renaril's own imagination.

In the dream, Renaril was a slave – a captive brought into the palace from a faraway land, paraded before the officials for a leisurely inspection and chosen to serve the empress herself, before being led away by a pair of eunuchs with thick Australian accents. Her replay skimmed over the connecting scenes, in which she was stripped, bathed and perfumed by a group of other servants, girls who resembled herself yet carried names even more alien than her captors' own. The important part started when she was led into a lavish bedroom and left alone there... Alone until a rustling curtain betrayed the entry of another.

In reality, Kang Li walked in plain, efficient strides. In Renaril's brain, she moved with confident sensuality, her broad hips swaying with each step. Finely oiled skin gleamed in the soft light of the room's flickering lanterns. Dark, bottomless eyes evaluated the empress' prize languidly, lips forming a satisfied smirk when Renaril's alter ego understood what was wanted of her and lay back on the bed, slowly parting her thighs. In the next instant, the girl was lifted from the bed and crushed against Kang's body.

Renaril startled herself by letting an aroused moan slip out. She'd begun to rub herself without even thinking, and now certain parts of her flesh were stiffening and swelling under the thin material of her uniform. Her fingers rushed to the collar, triggering the micro-zipper and pulling the separating halves to either side with borderline convulsive force. The sudden current of air which tickled her flushed and increasingly wet folds could only reinforce just how strongly turned on she was: one hand slipped down between her legs, the other moving to the firm mounds just released from the confines of the body-hugging suit.

In her fantasy, it was the oriental war goddess whose fingers pinched and stroked her skin, whose tongue probed deep into her mouth and whose breasts yielded so pleasantly as the captive squirmed in her mistress' grip. She reached apogee all too soon, arching her back with an ecstatic squeal, and was left with a sheen of sweat and a fading tingle of pleasure for her efforts. Renaril lay still for another minute or two before rousing herself and stumbling off to the shower.

As the water began to flow, she pondered what the act said about her character. It was a forgone conclusion that the colonel would _not_ approve. Elaqebil might reassure her student that these urges were perfectly normal for a healthy Arume of her age, or she might pity her for the remoteness of the object of her affections. Daebaril's approval would hinge on whether the elder Arume's personal dislike of Kang weighed more or less than her interest in gaining strong, well-formed grandchildren.

Renaril washed and dressed briskly, a vague plan forming. After she'd seen to her daily duties, she too would pay a visit to a certain person.

* * *

"This next one's called 'Gristly Bear'."

"Apple juice, lemon juice, Avtomat vodka..." Karan picked up the cartridge-shaped bottle and scrutinized its label. "Guaranteed to put any capitalist pig under the table?"

"Believe it, mate." Errol Darwin stirred the contents of his glass briskly, adding wine, berries and a slice of lemon to the concoction. "Ready?"

"I suppose." The Indian leaned over and cautiously sampled the drink through a straw. "Euagh... It's unbearable."

"Yah reckon?" Errol seized the mix and tossed it back. "WAAAAAAAAGH!"

"...Well?"

"I can't bear it either." Errol grimaced. "Bloody 'eck, me accent's slippin'!"

Kang walked onward, satisfied that the pair were keeping weapons and alcohol strictly segregated. She could still hear Errol whooping well after she'd left the experimenters behind, and saw just a few others going about their business as she navigated among the sprawling warehouses. The gradual rebuilding and resettlement of Hong Kong was yet to reach this district: the colonel had listened to the din of jackhammers and bulldozers on her ride through the outlying communities, yet here the loudest noises were gunshots coming from the Eto Delo training ranges.

The shooting had stopped by the time she reached her destination. Schuhart was right where he'd said he'd be, sitting under a striped canvas awning which extended from the wall of the warehouse facing the firing line. Phil Darwin was with him, along with a shortish Asian brunette whom the colonel didn't recognize. All sixteen of the gosta were there as well, holding an animated discussion in their native tongue.

"Hi Colonel," said the arms dealer affably, briefly looking up. "Gimme a couple minutes to finish this and I'm all yours."

The Chinese officer nodded, watching as he guided a cleaning rod into the breech of the long, badly worn rifle on his lap. Turning her eyes to the others, she observed that Phil was doing the same with a heavily-finned barrel which presumably belonged to the Brno machine gun sitting at his feet. The unknown woman seemed to be napping. Judging by the great age of the inventory laid up against the wall, today's excursion was for fun more than for training.

The tempo of the gosta conversation changed subtly. Kang inferred that they were talking about her, even before she caught her own name among the foreign words. Her relations with the alien orphans had gotten better since Lin Qinsong's attack on Guangzhou nearly a month ago, at which time they had decided by committee that she _was_ a good person after all. The girls had adapted to their new environment spectacularly in the intervening weeks, though the melding of Arumic and Terran cultures produced its own set of idiosyncrasies: each one had either knotted up the front of her shirt or cut it away completely, honoring the Arume custom of exposing one's navel.

Suddenly the debate ended, and Richardson stood up. "Good morning, Colonel," she said respectfully. "You are well?"

"Yes... And you?"

"Very well," the gosta replied proudly. "We have been testing historical Chinese ordnance. Later we are going to visit Miss Camilla when she is released from hospital."

"I see."

Richardson's expression became grave. "Colonel, why have you not refuted the slanders which are being published by your rivals?"

"It's not the right time."

The girl frowned. "They are insulting you and insulting the painter. They are making you look bad... Are they not bad people?"

A straight affirmative would not be appropriate here, however accurate: the last occasion on which Kang positively identified a 'bad person' had led the gosta into a lengthy discussion of the ballistic combinations most suitable for deleting said malefactor from the gene pool. "It's... not so simple," she hedged.

"Rien n'est simple," Schuhart agreed. He reunited bolt and receiver, worked the action a couple of times, then set the elderly boom-stick aside. "All set." Rising from his chair, the large man collected a pair of oblong cardboard boxes. "Shall we?"

Kang fell into step beside him as he left the group. "So," she began once they'd walked a little distance, "I gather you've been adding to your collection."

"A little." Schuhart noticed a spent casing lodged in the front of his vest and, after a brief examination, pocketed it. "Found a Hanyang Eighty-Eight with some actual spirals left in it, plus a worn-out Zhongzheng Mauser and a Guomindang contract Vee-zee Twenty-Four for the pattern room... The Hanyang shoots about minute-of-arse with handloads – not bad for its age. You should give it a try sometime."

"Sometime," Kang answered noncommittally. "Who is your new companion?"

"Name's Sawakaze Mariko. She's joining Phil and Karan as a sniping instructor."

"Highly skilled?"

"She'd better be. Came highly recommended."

The colonel concurred with the sentiment: qualified training personnel were short all around. "How was the 'Free City' of Shanghai?"

"Pretty good," said Schuhart cheerfully. "Only one guy tried to kill me."

"...Seriously."

"Yeah." The munitions magnate scratched his chin. "I was in a bar on the Bund, meeting a possible buyer. This punk came in waving a three-fifty-seven snubbie: five rounds rapid, missed every time."

"Who was he?"

Schuhart shrugged. "Vitaly smashed his head with a stool before I could ask... Probably just another of bin Salaad's ten-a-penny toughs."

_Oh yes,_ Kang thought sourly, _the notorious Omar bin Salaad._ One of these days, she was certain, Schuhart and bin Salaad were going to settle their differences once and for all... and she fervently hoped she wouldn't be in the vicinity when it happened. "Is the Nerv base secure?"

"Insofar as anything is secure in Shanghai."

"What was the stance of the Juche cadre?"

"The nomadic Nor-Kor diehards? They stayed on their ships as far as I could see... Locals didn't want to get close to 'em, and I didn't either."

"What about the warlords' roundtable? Is the talk of a united front true?"

"Yeah, but so far it's just talk." Schuhart made a turn at the next crossing, heading south towards the shore. "The warlords aren't team players – every one wants to be top dog. As it is, they can't amount to much individually... Didn't pick up much else of use there. You already know Taipei is making a bid for China's seat at the UN, yeah?"

"Yes."

"Right, well... The good news is, I was able to talk to General Jiang." The man grasped the smaller of the boxes and held it out. "He asked me to pass this along."

The box was unmarked. Inside, carefully wrapped in paper, was a bottle of Taiyuan vinegar with a small paper label affixed. _For my worthiest opponent_, it read, and Kang could imagine the old man chuckling dryly as he penned the ideographs. "The general attended in person?"

"Yeah... Showing off his power a little, I think. He's got it good – favorable terrain, energy reserves, heavy industry... Not to mention the largest share of the Chinese nuclear arsenal."

"He intends to pursue an independent course."

"Pretty much... He seems to think well of you personally, but he wants nothing to do with the sky eyes. Defending Shanxi is his top priority, he was very clear about that." The road ahead was blocked by rubble, sloping into the briny deep beyond the heaps of broken, algae-stained concrete. Schuhart turned right, walking parallel to the water. "That's all I got, I'm afraid."

Kang didn't like to trust in fickle hopes, but she felt relief at the knowledge that she might avert an armed campaign against her own homeland. "I appreciate it," she said sincerely.

"Hah." Stopping in the shade of a crumbling wall, Schuhart bent and adjusted his leg brace. "Excluding the Liaison made the whole thing a charade."

"Did your association with me cause you much trouble?"

"Nope." A foraging seabird flapped away as the pair drew near. "Word on the street is that I'm as mercenary as the next middleman... I did get a lot of questions about you, though."

"My private life?"

"Nah, mostly ideological stuff." The one-eyed man made a lemon-sucker face. "They know Marxism-Leninism, they know Stalinism and they know Maoism, but damned if they know Titoism-Dubcekism!"

Kang made a face of her own. "Is that what you called it?"

"That's what Jiang called it. I know you don't want it named after yourself, but 'New Communism' sounds... It doesn't have brand appeal, it's not _catchy."_

"Marketing can wait," the colonel pointed out. "Anything else to report?"

"Not from Shanghai." Coming up on the left was a wall which had fallen at an angle, creating a sort of rampart overlooking the harbor. Schuhart headed for it. "Unfortunately I didn't have much luck on the marksman rifles – Izhevsk and Cugir are both backordered and world-plus-dog is snapping up whatever the surplus market had."

Kang frowned as she followed him up the slope. "What about Kragujevac?"

"No word yet, but it's probably gonna be the same story."

The soldier tried not to grind her teeth as she gazed across the harbor. How had it been allowed, she wondered, for so much of China's former military might to be shuffled, sold, or simply _lost_ over the years? "Then we will need to make do with what we have," she conceded, "until domestic production recovers."

"Maybe." Schuhart cocked his head. "This morning one of my, eh... _suppliers_ called up and said to me, 'Tovarishch Schuhart, can I interest you in a depot?'"

Kang blinked. "A depot?"

"A Brezhnev-era reserve dump near Kharkov." The arms dealer carefully sat down. "The Ukrainians want the place cleared out for renovation and I got first pick of the relic heap... Must be their reward program for repeat customers."

"What did you get?"

"Some tanks, some anti-air weapons and a warehouse full of small arms."

The woman perked up slightly. "Any Dragunovs?"

Schuhart shook his head. "They kept those. We got the stuff made before 1950."

"How does that help me?"

"I have a few ideas. Let me talk to Nereus about it."

"Of course." There wasn't much else she could say.

They sat together in silence for a minute. "You know," said Schuhart at length, "Richardson has a point – staying silent may not make the scandalmongers go away."

"I know," Kang sighed. "But a careless denial will not be convincing."

"Bastards," the man grunted. "What the hell is 'The Empress's New Clothes' supposed to mean, anyway?"

"It's from – "

"I know what it's _from,"_ Schuhart interrupted. "I'm saying it's a cheap shot. It's got nothing to do with the original context." He contemplated his bad leg with an expression of disgust. "It's not just about disrupting morale or ridiculing you. The warlords want to rile up the puritans back in the States, scuttle your chance for most favored nation status."

"Perhaps."

"How's Renaril taking it?"

"I haven't seen her yet today."

"Hm." The cripple folded his arms across his chest. "So what are you going to tell her?"

"The truth."

Schuhart put a gravelly edge into his voice, as if he'd been hiding a serious smoking habit. "All we want are the facts, ma'am... Nine years ago, you were a first lieutenant. You went to Shanghai on leave. You met an art student who was in despair because his model abandoned him. You took pity on him and agreed to pose for a series of figure studies. Nothing indecent happened. Afterward you went back to your duties and never saw him again." The edge vanished. "Am I right?"

"Almost." Kang smiled just slightly. "I did check on him a few times."

"Doesn't make much difference. Renaril's probably so thrilled to see your..." The sentence trailed off. "Sorry."

"I expect she _is_ thrilled," the officer replied mildly. "For better or worse."

"Yeah," Schuhart concurred solemnly, "emphasis on 'worse'." He glanced to the side. "It's starting to impact her performance, isn't it?"

"Yes." Kang hunched forwards, drawing her knees up and resting her arms on them. "She may require... disciplinary measures."

"Careful, now. She might not take that the way you mean it."

"I know." The woman bit her lip. "If she just wants sex, I... might be able to accommodate her. If she's looking for romance, that's another problem."

"Because you don't like her? Or because it would be 'inappropriate'?" Schuhart looked the other way, watching waves lap at the foundations of fallen structures. "Guess it's not really my business."

"It's all right." Kang stood up, brushing dust off her trousers. "I should return to headquarters... Thank you for everything."

"Everything? More like almost nothing," the arms dealer grunted, pushing himself off the rubble. "I'll give you a lift back... I was thinking of going up to Changzhou and taking a hike around the old military academy, if that's okay."

"It is." Kang carefully made her way back to the street. "By the way, what's that other box for?"

"Oh, right." Schuhart alighted with more finesse than such a large man should be capable of. "I wasn't sure I'd see you again before May first, so..." He held out the box in both hands. "Happy birthday, Colonel."

* * *

"I don't think I can help you."

"I haven't even told you why – "

"Coming to see me with that look on your face means you've either pissed off a G-Eight government or else you're having problems with the colonel."

This was not how Renaril wanted the conversation to begin, but she wasn't going to give up now – not after working up the courage to approach one of the biggest, scariest forime she'd ever met, on her own, in a place she barely knew. "I need advice on... getting to know her better."

"Go _talk_ to her. If you're too scared to do that, then ask Elaqebil or Daebaril."

The Arume flinched at the thought of her chubby mentor bringing all her bounding enthusiasm to bear on the matter. "I can't get Elaqebil involved," she pleaded, "and Mother isn't on my side."

There was a sardonic snort. "What makes you think _I_ am?"

"I don't," Renaril replied defensively, "but you _are_ on the colonel's side."

"And?" Schuhart contemplated a small tree beside the narrow footpath. "I'm an arms dealer, not a dating agency. I sell stuff and get in fights. What do I know that does you any good?"

"You must have some idea of what she likes or doesn't like, what her tastes are..."

"Okay," the man answered flippantly. "The colonel likes team spirit and punctual people. She hates hypocrites and suck-ups. She doesn't wear skirts and she doesn't watch _Star Trek_... Do you feel enlightened now?"

For a few seconds Renaril thought she might burst into tears. "Why do you hate me?"

"I don't." Schuhart resumed his walk along the path, motioning for the group commander to follow him. "I've been sorely tempted at times, but I haven't been pushed _quite_ far enough yet."

"Then why won't you _help_ me?"

"You mean, why won't I tell you the secret to unlocking her heart?" The scarred man sighed before speaking again. "I don't know what the secret is, Group Commander. I could guess, but I'd probably be wrong."

"But you... you know, don't you, what kind of women she likes?"

"Not in any precise way." Schuhart stopped to examine a bronze plaque fixed on a granite plinth. "I only knew of one."

Renaril had heard a little about this person, but it was one of the subjects Kang would never discuss. "Tell me about her."

For a minute Schuhart said nothing, as if he hadn't heard the request. Then he limped over to the large, well-weathered tree which loomed over the next part of the path and rested his back against it. "Her name was Zheng Mei," he began softly. "Her father, Zheng Wu, was China's ambassador to Japan at the time."

"I met him," said the Arume. "He was part of the first talks in Shenzhen."

"Right, pulled away from his precious vacation... I first met the family when I was working in Japan, filling a security contract. Mei was studying engineering, and the colonel was her bodyguard – a punishment for some faux pas or other. Mei was... Well, she was a lot nicer than her money-grubbing dad." The dealer rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "She was cute, I guess. Very friendly, a bit naive... Could be pushy when she had to, especially against her father." His voice turned wistful. "It's really too bad things didn't work out."

"What happened?"

"The ambassador never liked the colonel, and Mei only ever saw her as a friend. Eventually Mei found a man she liked and married him, and the ambassador sent the colonel away... I suppose he thought bringing her along to the Liaison talks would, you know, dull the pain."

"I see." Renaril said that, but she didn't mean it. To her it seemed more probable that the gesture was meant to add insult to injury. _Here's a whole race of women like you,_ she imagined the pudgy old man intoning snidely. _Go have fun with them._

"I gather you don't approve," Schuhart remarked. Straightening, he resumed his walk. "That's the gist of the story. Does it help?"

"I... I think so." Renaril stumbled as she made to follow him, her slim shoes better suited to cool deck plates than loose warm gravel. "Mister Schuhart..."

"Hm?"

"Am I... not good enough?"

"That's not for me to say." He looked back over his shoulder. "You _do_ understand the colonel has bigger things to worry about, right?"

"I know reuniting the country is important – "

"That's not what I mean." Schuhart made a broad sweeping motion with both arms. "Do you know what this place is?"

"Um... Some kind of military school?"

"The Nationalist Party of China's Army Officer Academy isn't just a school. It's a legacy of a time when the Chinese dreamed of rising above their harsh circumstances, of being more than a carcass for warlords, bandits and imperialists to pick at." Schuhart's eye wandered to the ragged banner hanging at the end of the path: a many-pointed white sunburst on a deep blue background. Beside it was a red banner bearing a yellow hammer and sickle, and between the two hung a painting of a serene-looking man with a thin mustache and prominent eyebrows. "The dream has been deferred, distorted and discarded over the years, but it hasn't yet died." He turned around. "It won't die, so long as the colonel believes in it."


	26. The Boundary of Maiden and Mother: A

_Part 24: The Boundary of Maiden and Mother, Phase A_

_Kamov Ka-50G (construction number 3537053103005, property of Eto Delo Group)_

_Altitude 34 meters, 70km SW of Shanghai, China_

_April 29th, 2016_

The real thing handled even better than the simulation, and under other circumstances Azanael would feel elated at the privilege of sitting at its controls. There was scant time for joy now, however, as the stream of voices crackling in her ears reminded her.

_"Time to target, six minutes... Buster wing, weapon readiness."_

The first reply came from Anastasiya, the Arume's wingmate. _"Buster One, armed and ready."_

Now it was her own turn. She quickly scanned her heads-up display. "Buster Two, weapons armed."

_"Readiness confirmed... Ramrod Three, watch your spacing."_

Under the Kamov's pointed black snout, the winding Qiantang River emptied into the sea. Above it stretched a heavy overcast sky. Hangzhou Xiaoshan International Airport, where Azanael might have to land for refueling, was coming up on the right. Glancing to the left, the pilot could see Anastasiya's green Mi-28 tank hunter with its goofy shark face, and beyond it the mammoth gray silhouette of Keiko's Ka-77. The other members of the air assault group, three hulking Mi-24 gunships in mottled camouflage and a horde of Mi-6, Mi-8 and Mi-17 transports, were arrayed further to the rear.

Keiko came on the air. _"By now I'm sure you've all heard that Colonel Kang and Group Commander Renaril are expecting a baby, and I shouldn't have to remind you that stress is bad for a pregnant woman... So let's keep this quick and tidy, and give the colonel a peaceful first trimester!"_

There was a low-key cheer from the other pilots and crews. It wasn't the kind of thing that was allowed in the Arumic naval aviation service, and Azanael didn't participate. Better to stay alive and congratulate the parents-to-be in person, she felt.

_"And remember, people,"_ the giantess added, _"your opponents are some of the most vicious fanatics on the planet... If you bail out, don't surrender. If you surrender, don't expect to be taken alive. If you're taken alive, don't expect to be treated nicely."_

That applied doubly to Azanael herself. Her presence was a provocation of the warlord cliques' adamant refusal to grant passage to Liaison forces, something her nominal status as a mercenary-for-a-day probably didn't cancel out. Her pale lips compressed into a thin line as she braced herself for contact with the enemy and the old familiar adrenaline rush.

_"You okay over there, sky eyes?"_

It took the alien a second to realize Keiko was addressing her. "No problems, Ramrod Leader."

There was a soft laugh. _"Still worried about flying with us barbarians? Don't be – all these men and women either survived the Afghan war or learned from someone who did."_

"Noted," Azanael replied curtly.

_"Okey-dokey... Ramrod Leader to all units, enemy air contact at eleven o'clock. Profile matches anticipated."_

_"Copy, we see them."_

_"Buster wing, start your run. We'll go say hi to the Fokker-fodder."_

"Roger."

It wasn't going to be an even fight, regardless of whether Azanael and Anastasiya bypassed it or not. They came to the engagement equipped with the best in forime combat electronics and armed with state of the art firepower. Her Kamov alone boasted eight examples of third-layer Russia's newest anti-tank missile system, known to its makers as the 9K137 'Vorobey' and to their rivals as the AT-19 'Sparkler'. It was a laser-guided, beam-riding, user-friendly weapon capable of permanently decommissioning the opposition from fifteen kilometers' distance. The best her prey could muster, monkey model Mi-35s nearly ten years overdue for heavy maintenance, seemed a laughable threat.

_"Hey, otherworlder."_ That cheeky voice belonged to Anastasiya's navigator, Maksim. _"Do your kind keep score?"_

"Sometimes." As her machine banked to the right and pulled away from the main formation, Azanael reminded herself that she couldn't let her guard down. These enemies had startled the world once already, and she could ill afford to be caught off guard a second time.

* * *

_Sino-Arumic Liaison PHQ_

_Four days earlier_

"Do you call that standing at attention?" Roland Schuhart wrinkled his nose. "'Cause I don't call that standing at attention."

Colonel Kang didn't think much of the performance either, though she said nothing. The Chinese soldier simply watched from a distance, arms folded, as the one-eyed man walked down the line of fresh meat: twelve Arume officers, all of the stunted variety.

"Tomorrow your training begins in earnest... But before you can train, you need to know some rules." The arms dealer faced the line, resting the weapon of the day on his shoulder like a trooper on parade. "In this place you have no value until you _prove_ it. Leadership skills are not enough: before you've learned to clean a rifle, dig a trench and bandage a wound, you are _useless_ to the Liaison. We have a lot to teach you and very little time to teach it – that means you mind your manners and do as the instructors tell you at _all_ times." He resumed his patrol, keeping the rifle where it was. "There is no room for arrogant little twits here... If any of you persist in _being_ arrogant little twits, we have a twelve-step program which can help you." The man pivoted on his heel. "You will _not_ enjoy it."

None of them requested clarification. Kang didn't feel like asking either.

"That's all for today. Any questions? No questions? Right, report to your barrack – _dismissed!"_

The trainees' marching was no more disciplined than their position of attention, but it went without reprimand for now. "Sorry to make you wait," Schuhart said as the aliens departed.

"I just arrived," the colonel replied modestly. She nodded in the direction of the parade ground. "What do you think?"

"I think you're in trouble," the man replied candidly, "if those vapor-brained pukes are the best the sky eyes' officer corps will give you. Can't even have the satisfaction of calling this bunch 'primitive screw-heads'."

Kang shrugged. "I wasn't expecting the Arume to entrust me with quality material."

"Me neither."

"Never the less," the short-haired woman remarked curiously, following the scarred dealer back towards the entrance to the grounds, "you look happy."

"I _am_ happy," said Schuhart cheerfully. "Work on the Spug continues apace, all's quiet on the western front and _I_ am about to ruin somebody's day." He stopped, holding out the rifle. "Take a look at this."

Kang's first assumption, that the Mauser was part of yesterday's collection, was dispelled when she saw the crown on the receiver ring and the legend stamped below it: _DANZIG 1912_. It wouldn't make a pretty display piece, not with its metal surfaces bearing a coarse blue-black finish and its gouged and dented stock covered in a heavy varnish that felt like slick plastic under the colonel's fingers. "This is..?"

"It was originally issued to a Landser in the service of Kaiser Wilhelm. A couple of decades later it got chopped down and dumped into the dirty hands of Hitler's vanguards of racial purity. Then it went to the Soviets as a battlefield pickup or via confiscation from a POW, or was surrendered following war's end. Its new masters eventually overhauled it and threw it into a crate, where it lay until yesterday afternoon."

"This is from the Kharkov depot?"

Schuhart nodded. "I asked a couple of guys at the Kiev office to check out the goods. They sent me a sample assortment by overnight air." He laughed briefly. "Perks of having an in-house freight service."

"Mm." Kang returned the weapon. "You were speaking of ruin."

"So I was." Schuhart pointed to the exposed flank of the barrel, behind the rear sight. Peering at it, Kang saw a skull and crossbones among the alphanumeric proof stamps. "This is worth fifteen hundred on the American collector market," the man told her. "Without the Totenkopf it'd fetch three-fifty, maybe four hundred." He resumed his walk abruptly, slinging the gun across his back. "There are some greedy sons-of-bitches over there who buy these mismatched beaters wholesale, grind and re-stamp their numbers, pretty them up and add skulls and runes in the obvious places. Then they offer them as 'mint all-matching relics' to people with first-edition copies of _Ilsa, She Wolf of the SS_ at eight thousand bucks apiece."

His evident disgust at the practice found total sympathy on Kang's part. "And you have deprived them of fresh stock," she concluded.

"Bingo," Schuhart cackled. "If the Ukrainians are amenable, I'm gonna deprive those bastards of a few thousand more while I'm at it – German, Czech, the works."

"Leaving you with a pile of obsolete fascist ordnance on your hands," the Chinese female pointed out. "What then?"

"Good question," said the monocular man airily. "That's one of the things I wanted to talk to you about."

"I can't use them."

"Maybe not." Schuhart stretched his arms over his head. "But General Jiang can."

Somehow Kang wasn't particularly surprised to hear it. "You're making deals with him now."

"Working on one," her companion replied mildly. "We'd like to establish a facility in Shanxi."

"I'm not surprised." Not surprised but maybe a little bit saddened, even though she'd assumed from the beginning that business concerns would eventually trump personal feelings. "Would the general want me to know about this?" she inquired pointedly.

"If he didn't want you to know about it, he wouldn't have asked me to _tell_ you about it." Schuhart glanced at Kang. "Would he?"

Maybe she was too hasty in assuming her mangled friend was leaving her behind. "He wanted me to know?"

"Under the table." The pair came to a fountain, recently installed and stylistically jarring in Kang's eyes. "I think he wants us to be the link between Guangzhou and Taiyuan," the arms dealer continued, looking up at the bronze effigy of Lin Zexu perched atop the water-spouting fixture. "The hotline, even."

Kang frowned. "You told me he didn't want relations with the Liaison."

"He doesn't want relations with the _Arume,"_ Schuhart corrected. "Public opinion in Shanxi isn't exactly favorable towards you right now, but he'd like to keep the door open."

"Through Eto Delo."

"Right... I'm sure he's also pursuing it as insurance in case the sky eyes get belligerent. Whatever the case, having a base up there would be really convenient for us."

The colonel leaned back briefly, eying the Mauser. "You intend to deliver these weapons to Shanxi to be refurbished," she deduced, "and issued to... a civil militia, perhaps?"

"Perhaps." Schuhart started to walk around the fountain. "I understand the general is also interested in acquiring them to extend the engagement range of his mountain troops. Strictly to protect his territory, of course."

"Of course."

There was a knowing chuckle at her sarcasm. "As my esteemed predecessor said, all weapons are defensive and all spare parts are non-lethal." The man smiled faintly as he limped along. "If anyone should be afraid of General Jiang, it's that whiskery noodle who runs the Shaanxi clique. I think Jiang's got a cooler head than Lin Qinsong, but he doesn't want anybody threatening his access to the Mongolian border."

"I agree." Kang checked her watch, discovering she'd lost track of time. "I'm sorry," she said, hoping she didn't sound abrupt or evasive, "I need to get back to the office. Was there anything else you wanted?"

"I did have a sales pitch," Schuhart admitted, "but I wrote all that down, so it's okay." He took out a folded bundle of papers and handed it to the colonel. "Something to help with your own shortage."

Kang scanned the document's header: _Project proposal: modification of the Mosin rifle for individual marksman use_, it read in crisp black letters. "I'll get back to you as soon as I can," she promised, pocketing the papers. "Goodbye for now."

"I'll see myself out... One last thing – any news on your, uh, other problem?"

"If you mean the paintings, I am drafting a response."

"Glad to hear it." Schuhart waved over his shoulder as he ambled away. "When you get back, I've also got a deal on some lightly used MiGs that might interest you... Take care, Colonel."

* * *

"What did he want?"

"Hm?"

"You were talking to that man again," Renaril pressed. "What did he want this time?"

_Must we discuss this now?_ Kang thought irritably as the shuttle's liftoff acceleration petered out and left her weightless, held in place only by a strap across her hips. "He wanted to sell things," she said curtly, thrusting the proposal at her companion. The artificial gravity came online a few moments later, drawing both of them back into their seats. Another few minutes and the vehicle would dock with _Magnanimous Hyacinth_, bringing the colonel back to the orbiting platform for the first time in more than a month. It wasn't a reunion she anticipated warmly.

"Wow," Renaril breathed, her nose buried in the sheaf of schematics and isometric sketches. "I can actually understand some of this... What does 'polish sear' mean?"

* * *

The proposal turned out, once Kang found the time to read it thoroughly, to be better than she'd expected. Scrawling a mark of approval on the first page, she pushed it to the side of her desk and reviewed her work for the evening. There were only a few outstanding problems left, the precarious situation of the Shanghai Nerv facility topping the list. The organization's Beijing branch, which housed a Magi supercomputer and Evangelion production facilities, was gone: self-destructed and buried under ton upon ton of rubble by its own staff during the most violent hours of the Chinese breakup.

_For the better, perhaps..._

Nerv Shanghai was merely a data processing center, inherited from its predecessor Gehirn and thinly defended by a detachment of the ex-PLA garrison which protected the Free City from its warlord neighbors. The information held within it was threatened not only by outside attack, but also by the risk that Shanghai's governors might use it as a bargaining chip. Would the staff, Kang wondered, go as far as their Beijing colleagues to protect their secrets? They were a secretive bunch, a sinkhole in the noosphere, and she couldn't predict their moves.

"Eyepatch."

Kang twisted in her chair, looking warily at Renaril's desk on her right. "What?"

The Arume's clouded blue orbs left her terminal only for a second. "Why doesn't he wear one?"

She was talking about Schuhart again, Kang realized. "Visibility," the Chinese woman replied. "He feels it attracts excessive attention."

"Oh..."

It took Kang a couple of seconds to realize Renaril must still be reviewing the Chinese navy's anti-piracy operations in the Indian Ocean. The majority of ships involved had come under Hainan's command when the central government fell, meaning they were now part of the Liaison's forces. The train of thought from 'pirate' to 'Roland Schuhart' wasn't hard to follow.

The colonel returned to her own task with reluctance. She hated this business – Nerv, Gehirn, the Evangelions, Seele, the Human Instrumentality Project... It was so odious that she, for whom shirking responsibility was anathema, caught herself wishing someone would come along and relieve her of the burden. Closing the folder with a sigh, she made a note to try contacting Nerv's Japanese headquarters again in the morning. Colonel Katsuragi was no doubt legitimately occupied with preparations for the upcoming UN summit in Tokyo-2, an event momentous enough that Commander Ikari himself was rumored to be planning a personal appearance, but Kang hoped she might receive at least a short reply. Otherwise she'd have to try and buttonhole Ikari at the summit itself.

_Or maybe I should just ask Schuhart?_

The idea made her feel a little guilty. Every errand he privately undertook for her, whether in Shanghai or Vladivostok, in New Delhi or Hai Phong, came out of his own time and his own pocket. He never complained, and she knew perfectly well that the arms dealer probably found plenty of side business during these trips, but his standing in the market would be irreparably tarnished if he appeared to favor the Liaison over his other clients.

"How long do we have to wait before we can request another transfer from the arbiter corps?"

The unfortunate truth was that neither Kang nor Renaril were particularly effective diplomats. Kang's reputation as a short-tempered and uncompromising table-thumper preceded her everywhere, while Renaril simply lacked the self-assurance required to maintain a charming yet persuasive demeanor in the face of any audience more formidable than a washroom mirror. Weisheng Ying had proved to be a competent negotiator, but she was too valuable as a civil administrator to be given full-time emissary duties. Quite bluntly, they needed someone else who could sugar-coat the Liaison.

"Renaril?" Was the group commander spacing out again? When Kang turned to look, she was startled by the sight of the other woman hunched forward in her chair, eyes squeezed shut, visibly shivering. "Renaril!" she gasped, leaping up from her own seat. "Are you all... right..?"

Renaril turned her face away, her cheeks flushing as the shiver diminished to a tremble. Standing beside her, Kang now saw that the Arume had her right hand wedged between her pale thighs. "Are you all right?" the colonel repeated.

Renaril nodded: a jerky, fearful motion. Very slowly, as if still trying to be inconspicuous, she withdrew her fingers from inside her uniform. They came out covered in a wet, sticky sheen, and an unmistakable scent wafted past Kang's nose.

_I see,_ the soldier thought wearily. Perhaps it was just as well – Renaril's behavior was number two on her list of problems, and this confirmed that she couldn't afford to put off confronting it. "We need to talk," she told the Arume, "after you're finished with that report... Would you prefer your quarters, or mine?"

It was a trivial question. The cabins were effectively identical, and the pair would only be using them for one night. "M-mine," Renaril whimpered.

"As you like." Kang went back to her desk and began to collect her papers. "I will see you at... twenty-one-thirty, then?"

* * *

The force of Renaril's thumping heart pulsed through her entire body. It was now, if she remembered her time conversion table, 21:28. _Two minutes,_ she thought. _Two minutes and it's all over._ Part of her wanted to run, to spring up from the bed and bolt out the door and fly away to some place where she couldn't be found. Another part, knowing that Kang's room was just down the same corridor that lay between her and freedom, cravenly held her fast.

The seconds ticked by, as inexorable as the grains of sand falling through the ornate hourglass on the table close at hand. The hourglass was Italian, supposedly dating from the middle Renaissance, and had been brought back from the second layer as a war trophy by one of Renaril's upperclasswomen at the academy. It was the only object she brought along purely for sentimental reasons.

The door chime sounded at 21:30:07, just as Renaril was inverting the timekeeping artifact. "Enter," the Arume said flatly, trying to ignore the way her pulse spiked at the noise.

Kang's appearance had changed subtly yet unmistakably in the interval since she departed their shared office. She'd left her gun and holster in her own cabin, and her clothes were... looser, somehow. The Chinese female looked down at Renaril in silence for a few moments, then went to the single chair, turned it towards the bed and sat down. "Well..?" she prompted, her face offering no clues to her mood.

Renaril stared at her own bare feet. "You must think it's disgusting."

"The problem is not what you were doing," the colonel replied evenly, "but where you were doing it. What were you thinking?"

"I – I..."

"Were you thinking about me?"

"..!"

"It's all right," Kang declared softly. "You aren't the first."

"I'm sorry," Renaril whispered. "I just couldn't stop..."

"You can't go on like this," said Kang, making a visible effort to be firm without sounding judgmental. "Your discipline is slipping. You get distracted or forget things. I understand that you're lonely and you aren't in a setting where you can... go out and pick up girls – "

"I don't – !" Renaril cut the rebuttal short before she could give herself a proper chance to install foot wholly in mouth, and took a deep breath before resuming. "I don't want to pick up girls," she finished in a lowered voice.

"Then what do you want?"

"I... You..." The Arume's composure started to slip once more. "You _know_ what I want."

"I think I do." Kang crossed her arms. "But what if I'm wrong?"

"How can you be wrong?" Renaril countered resentfully. "You can see it... _Everyone_ can see it... Why won't you admit it?"

"Because that's _your_ responsibility," the colonel declared. "How can you hope to get what you want if you're too timid even to ask for it?"

"I..." The alien swallowed, eyes darting about in search of a fixture that was neither Kang nor the floor. They settled on the hourglass, running unattended behind the other woman's elbow. The pinched shape of its glass core appeared to her now as a caricature of the female form, mocking her hesitance. Summoning every grain of courage she had left, she inhaled deeply. _"I want you!"_

"...Why?"

After a few seconds, Renaril realized it was probably a good idea to stop holding her breath. "Huh?"

"Why me?" Kang didn't look angry or revolted, but she didn't seem happy either. "There are prettier women... Kinder, also."

"I don't care." Now that she'd cleared the main hurdle, Renaril found it a little easier to express herself. "You're the only one who makes me feel this way. You're strong and brave and really kind to me and..."

The Chinese soldier was now definitely bemused. "And that's why you want to have sex with me?"

Renaril nodded, feeling herself blush as an errant erotic thought surfaced in her mind.

"What if I say yes?"

The Arume couldn't quite believe her heart hadn't stopped. "Huh?"

"I'm... not opposed to it." Kang seemed to be losing her own composure a little, as though she hadn't planned this far ahead. "I mean, we're effectively living together already and I... I don't dislike you."

Of all the possible outcomes to this nocturnal conversation, Renaril somehow hadn't anticipated actually receiving the answer she'd fervently hoped for. "Really?" she asked, not daring to believe her ears. "We could... do it?"

"If that would make you happy." The dark-haired officer leaned forward in her seat. "But there are conditions. One, this is strictly a private matter between ourselves. Two, you behave yourself when you're on duty. Three, this ends if you can't pull yourself together during work hours. Do you understand?"

Right now Kang could demand the moon on a platinum hubcap garnished with fresh trilobites and Renaril would agree to such a price. "I do," she breathed, her fear morphing into eager interest. "I do, I promise."

"Good."

The petite woman had expected her opposite to say something more. "So, um," she fumbled, "can – can we do anything now?"

"If you wish." Kang said that, but her confidence seemed to take another dip as she did so. "What would you like?"

"Um, I'd..." The blush ramped up to full throttle. "I'd like to be pushed down."

Kang's brow furrowed. "...What kind of fantasies were you having?"

_Oops._ Renaril floundered for a moment, then rallied under the banner of honesty and pressed onward. "Uh, the last one was... You were an amazon and I was a girl you kidnapped from a village." Her blush ignited its afterburners. "You took me into your tent and, er..."

"Had my way with you?" Kang finished critically. When the Arume nodded again, she let out a long sigh. "That's a fantasy I can't indulge."

Renaril promptly suffered a flameout in both engines. If the colonel didn't like that scenario, odds were that she wouldn't like anything else the alien's imagination had come up with. "Why not?"

"Call it... personal distaste."

The slender woman on the bed couldn't fend off an unwanted feeling of betrayal. After the nerve-wracking wait, after finally confessing her desires and after finally attaining her coveted goal, was it really fair to be expected to give up _now?_ "What's wrong with it?" she protested. "That kind of play won't hurt me – "

"No." Kang shook her head. "I'm sorry, Renaril, but I can't act out a rape."

"But – "

"It hurts _me."_

The veteran's vehemence finally broke through the Arume's stubborn, selfish shell. "What?" Renaril mumbled, blinking in confusion. "Why would it..." Her eyes widened. "You... witnessed something?" A visual cue told her she was still off the mark, but the only other possibility that occurred to her – surely it couldn't be true for the tough, fearless colonel of all people? A great dread, heavier even than that of her lonely wait, gripped the alien. "What happened to you?"

Kang shrugged. "What has always happened to women in war?"

The hourglass ran out.


	27. Supplementary Documents: Second Part

(Author's note: I had a couple of reader requests for more mock-wiki articles, so I polished up some material which didn't make it into the first collection. Those of you who aren't reading for the gritty depictions of future warfare may rest assured that normal programming will resume next time.)

{Edit: many thanks to _creaothceann_ for the German correction.)

_Supplementary Documents – Second Part_

**Kamov Ka-77**

Plaintext version with image captions, brought to you by Encyclopedia Titanica (Full article) (Plaintext without image captions) (Show inline citations)

The **Kamov Ka-77** 'Thunder Beast' (NATO reporting name: 'Hack') is a third universal layer Russian heavy assault helicopter. It was designed in the late 2000s and adopted by the Russian army and air force in 2016. While marketed under the name of the Kamov Design Bureau, the Ka-77 was actually co-developed by Kamov and Mil Moscow Helicopter Plant, both part of the Ruscopter consortium since 2002.

_[Caption: A Russian army Ka-77N flies over Red Square during the 2018 Victory Day Parade.]_

**Design and construction**

The Ka-77 was designed to be able to deploy, support and retrieve infantry strike forces in remote areas, necessitating a mix of speed and survivability. It uses the tandem rotor system typical of Kamov helicopters, and like the smaller Ka-50 'Hokum' can be flown by a single pilot. Though of similar weight to the Mil Mi-6 'Hook' and Mi-26 'Halo', the Ka-77 is physically more compact thanks to the comparatively small rotor footprint and lack of a tail boom. It is capable of flying moderate distances with one engine out of action while fully loaded. The helicopter uses an overpressurized cockpit for NBC defense and can reliably survive hits from 30mm cannon.

_[Caption: A Ka-77 firing S-8 rockets at Islamic Works Front insurgents in Kazakhstan, June 2017.]_

**Operational history**

The Ka-77 entered mass production just as the Second Layer War began. It was flown in small numbers by the Russian Federation from the war's outset, and was supplied to allied states elsewhere. Significant quantities were purchased by Eto Delo Group during Russia's period of neutrality and operated by the company's PMC subsidiaries or sold on to international clients. Since the Ka-77 was an expensive machine in an already pricey class, in the assault role it was often flown alongside the cheaper Mi-24 'Hind' and armed variants of the Mi-8 'Hip'. Approximately 1800 were built before production ceased in 2029.

_[Caption: The second Ka-77 prototype on outdoor display at the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum.]_

_Main article: Conflicts in which the Ka-77 served_

**Variants**

**V-77:** prototype version, eight built between 2007 and 2015. The sixth unit was sold to Eto Delo and saw combat during the Chinese reunification campaigns of 2016.

**Ka-77 (Hack-A):** the initial production model, armed with a flexible 12.7mm Yakushev-Borzov Gatling gun under the nose and eight double-rail ordnance pylons on the wings. Cabin mounts were provided for PKT machine guns and Balkan automatic grenade launchers.

**Ka-77A (Hack-B):** second production model, replacing the 12.7mm YakB with a flexible Shipunov 2A42 30mm autocannon.

**Ka-77V (Hack-C):** the 12.7mm YakB was replaced with a GSh-23L 23mm Gast gun in a flexible chin turret.

**Ka-77P (Hack-D):** the chin turret was removed in exchange for a pair of fixed GSh-30-2 30mm cannon, mounted along the sides of the cockpit.

**Ka-77U (Hack-T):** unarmed training model. Only six were built, as it was considered more cost-effective to carry out training in simulators.

**Ka-77N (Hack-E):** Ka-77A fitted with specialized electronics for improved night fighting capability.

**Ka-77B (Hack-F):** unarmed model with improved speed and payload capacity, for use as a courier or flying ambulance.

**Ka-77M (Hack-G):** artillery version based on the the Ka-77P, with the wing pylons dedicated to mounting a set of 220mm rocket tubes similar to those on the BM-24 ground vehicle. Twelve were built, all purchased by the Indian army. Others may have been refitted to this configuration by third parties.

**Ka-77R (Hack-H):** reconnaissance model with the wing pylons removed to make space for NBC sensors and terrain survey equipment.

**Ka-78 (Hack-I):** Ruscopter's designation for the export model, available in any of the standard configurations.

**Ka-77PA (Hack-X):** a set of three Ka-77Ps built in 2018 on a special order from Eto Delo. Exact differences unknown, but reputed to have been intended for testing of reverse-engineered Arume technology.

**Operators**

Due to inter-layer export agreements, no state in the second universal layer has officially operated the Ka-77.

**Arume**

-Secondhand Ka-77s were extensively used by the Equalist faction during the Arume Civil War.

**Belarus**

**Brazil**

**Bolivia**

**Bulgaria**

**Canada**

**China**

-Purchased through Eto Delo and flown by the Sino-Arumic Liaison armed forces. Russia also sold three units to the Shanxi Provisional Administration, which the Shanxi New Communist Party later deployed against the Aru-Japanese Alliance.

**Ecuador**

**Finland**

**Georgia**

**Hungary**

**India**

**Japan**

-Supplied by the Sino-Arumic Liaison after the installment of the second Ibuki shogunate.

**Kazakhstan**

**Kyrgyzstan**

**Latvia**

**Lithuania**

**Mongolia**

**Pakistan**

**Poland**

**Republic of Alaska**

-Supplied by Japan under the second shogunate.

**Republic of California and Southern Oregon**

-Supplied by Eto Delo, paid for by the Sino-Arumic Liaison.

**Romania**

**Russia**

**Tajikistan**

**Ukraine**

**Unified States of America**

-Captured Ka-77s were flown to compensate for equipment attrition.

**United States of America**

-Inherited from California and Alaska after reunification.

**Uzbekistan**

**Venezuela**

**Specifications (Ka-77 'Hack-A')**

**Crew:** 1 pilot, 1 copilot, 1 navigator, 1 electronics operator

**Capacity:** 95 troops or 19,253 kg cargo

**Length:** 36.6 m (rotors turning)

**Rotor diameter:** 28.1 m

**Height:** 11.03 m

**Empty weight:** 30,027 kg

**Loaded weight:** 49,280 kg

**Max takeoff weight:** 55,090 kg

**Powerplant:** 2x Baryshev-Bratukhin BB-70 turboshafts, 9,125 kW each

**Maximum speed:** 330 km/h

**Range:** 2,012 km

**Service ceiling:** 5,110 m

[Links (Expand+)]

[Search Contact Site Policy]

Page accessed on 29 September 2038 14:57:10 UTC

* * *

**M18 rifle**

Plaintext version with image captions, brought to you by Encyclopedia Titanica (Full article) (Plaintext without image captions) (Show inline citations)

_For the ArmaLite AR-18, click here._

The **M18** (formally **Universal Rifle, Caliber 6.73mm, M18**) is an assault rifle based on the ArmaLite AR-15, designed by Boomslang Ordnance LLC of Dover-Foxcroft, Maine in the second universal layer.

_[Caption: An M18 (center) compared with an M16A6 (top) and an M4A2 (bottom).]_

**Design**

The M18 was originally developed as a conversion kit for standard AR-15 and M16 rifles. It inherited the general characteristics of the AR-15 family, including the rotary-locking bolt and aluminum alloy receiver. The M18 differs from its parent weapon primarily in the use of a shortened bolt carrier connected to a coaxial gas piston and recoil spring above the barrel, greatly increasing reliability over the AR-15's direct impingement system while allowing the use of a sideways folding stock.

**History**

The M18 was designed in the early 2000s, but the ongoing Arume domination and patent disputes with Z-M Weapons over similarities to the LR 300 prevented it from entering production until 2011. It was originally called the _Vindicator_ by Boomslang, which contracted manufacturing to Diemaco.

_[Caption: Lead designer Gordon Smith displaying a pre-production Vindicator.]_

Boomslang entered the Vindicator in the 2014 trials to replace the various 5.56x45mm NATO rifles used by Terran forces under Arume command, where it was designated XM18. It was judged the best compromise between improved performance and minimal upgrade cost, beating the Bushmaster XM17 and Remington-Burnside XM19, and subsequently procured in moderate numbers for field testing.

_[Caption: Top to bottom: XM17, XM18, XM19.]_

The XM18 was issued to collaborator forces transported to the third universal layer, where it first saw combat during the abortive invasion of Hong Kong in March 2016. It was generally liked by troops, though the combination of a short barrel and SS109/M855 ammunition gave poor terminal ballistics at extended ranges. Low quality magazines were also a source of frequent criticism. These complaints were partially alleviated through issue of older M193 ammunition and improved magazines obtained from commercial suppliers.

_[Caption: Master Commander Mariel of the Aru-Kazakh Administration test firing the XM18 in Kurchatov, Kazakhstan, September 2016.]_

Conflict in the third layer saw the XM18 competing with the Colt M16A4E4 and M4A1E3 fielded by the Unified States of America and its satellites. These rifles chambered the new 6.73x42mm Halibut cartridge and gave their operators a fighting advantage at short to medium ranges. Samples of the new weapons and ammunition were sent back to the second layer, where Boomslang adapted the XM18 to use the heavier round. Tests of the resulting XM18E1 ran until late 2018, when the rifle was standardized as the M18. Manufacturing was subsequently contracted to multiple companies and arsenals in both the second and third layers.

_[Caption: Rifle cartridges of the Second Layer War. Left to right: 5.45x39 Soviet, 5.56x45 NATO, 5.8x42 Chinese, 6.73x42 Halibut, 7.62x39 Soviet, 7.62x51 NATO, 7.62x54R, 7.92x57 Mauser.]_

The M18's compatibility with existing AR-15 parts and accessories led to its eventual adoption by forces on all sides of the war, though it never overcame the dominance of older M16-pattern weapons. Postwar commercial sales in both layers generally lagged behind those of third layer 6.73mm rifles like Colt's M16A6 or Izhmash's AK-110 and AKbM.

**Variants**

**Vindicator:** original commercial version in .223 Remington, available in both select fire and semi-automatic configurations and with various barrel lengths, stocks and sights.

**XM18:** first military version in 5.56x45mm. The regular model had a 368mm barrel, side-folding adjustable stock and flattop receiver with integral Picatinny rail.

**XM18E1:** 6.73x42mm version, otherwise identical to XM18.

**XM18E2:** an XM18 chambered for 5.45x39mm ammunition. It was not accepted by any Arume forces, but a copy was manufactured by Shanxi Munition Works as the Type 19.

**M18:** formally adopted version, incremental improvements over XM18E1. Replaced most M4 carbines in Arume service.

**M18A1:** micro-carbine with a 292mm barrel, adopted to replace the XM177, GAU-5 and comparable weapons.

**M18A2:** full size rifle with fixed stock and 508mm barrel, replaced most M16s.

**M18 DMR:** accurized M18A2 fitted with telescopic sight, bipod and adjustable fixed stock.

**M18 LMG:** heavy barreled squad automatic rifle, similar to the M16 LMG co-developed by Colt and Diemaco. This version of the M18 fired from the open bolt.

**Specifications (M18)**

**Weight:** 2.9 kg empty

**Length:** 837 mm (stock extended)

**Barrel length:** 368 mm

**Cartridge:** 6.73x42 mm

**Action:** gas operated, rotating bolt

**Rate of fire:** 900 rounds/min

**Muzzle velocity:** 904 m/s

**Effective range:** 570 m

**Feed system:** 25 round box magazine

[Links (Expand+)]

[Search Contact Site Policy]

Page accessed on 30 September 2038 11:11:12 UTC

* * *

**Karabiner 16**

Plaintext version with image captions, brought to you by Encyclopedia Titanica (Full article) (Plaintext without image captions) (Show inline citations)

The **Karabiner 16** (abbreviated **Kar16** or **K16**) is a bolt-action rifle based on the Mauser 1898 system. It was developed in the third universal layer by Andrzej 'Nereus' Majewski of Eto Delo Group and widely issued to reserve troops and militias during the Second Layer War.

**History**

At the end of World War II, the Soviet Union was left in possession of millions of Karabiner 98k rifles taken from the defeated forces of Nazi Germany. These rifles were overhauled and placed into storage, with some being given to Soviet-aligned parties in the third world. After the end of the Cold War many were exported to civilian markets, but hundreds of thousands were still held by various ex-Soviet states when the Second Layer War began.

_[Caption: A typical Russian capture Kar98k. Note that the sight hood and cleaning rod are missing, and that the stock has a prewar flat buttplate yet is fitted with late wartime stamped and welded barrel bands.]_

**Development**

In April 2016 General Jiang Dongming, commander of the Shanxi Provisional Administration, approached Eto Delo with a request to develop a rifle suitable for issue to his home guard and mountain troops. The rifle was to be simple and reliable, of rugged construction, and capable of placing lethal hits on a man-size target at a distance of no less than four hundred meters with iron sights.

_[Caption: General Jiang and his protege, Colonel Kang Li, observing maneuvers of the Shanxi Mountain Rangers in Taiyuan, March 2017.]_

Andrzej Majewski selected the Mauser 98 action, a well-established and proven design, as the basis for the project. The Mauser's dependence on expensive milled steel components was averted by recycling Kar98k rifles, which at the time were cheaply available from Russia and Ukraine. The primary modifications to the Kar98k pattern were the replacement of the barrel mounted tangent sight with a receiver mounted aperture sight, an arrangement similar to the sights used on the Pattern 1914 Enfield and Springfield M1903A3, and the addition of a Picatinny accessory mounting rail on the barrel ahead of the receiver. The short upper handguard was replaced by one which extended back to the front of the receiver ring, with a slot to clear the accessory rail.

_[Caption: A prototype Kar16 converted from a Kar98k built by JP Sauer und Sohn in 1939. The prototype retains the original barrel with short handguard, and the Picatinny rail is mounted on the former base of the tangent sight.]_

The design of the Karabiner 16 was completed and approved in July 2016. Production commenced immediately at Eto Delo Hong Kong and Eto Delo Berlin, using donor rifles inspected and processed at Eto Delo Kiev. New barrels and laminated wooden stocks were fitted, reusing the original bayonet lugs, barrel bands and buttplates. The new barrels had threaded muzzles for attachment of flash hiders, silencers and rifle grenade spigots. The coarse bluing and paint applied by Russian arsenals were removed and replaced with a hard-wearing epoxy finish. The 7.92x57mm caliber was retained for its good ballistic performance and for compatibility with the license-built MG 42/16 and refurbished ZB 26 machine guns supplied to Jiang's army by another Eto Delo subsidiary, Shanxi Munition Works. No effort was made to erase or obscure the rifles' original factory codes and Nazi proof marks, as doing so was considered a waste of valuable production time.

_[Caption: Closeup of a Kar16 receiver. Markings top to bottom: Waffenamt acceptance stamp, 'ar' factory code indicating production at Mauser Borsigwalde, rework stamp denoting conversion at Shanxi Munition Works in December 2016, and two-digit date stamp showing that the receiver was produced in 1941.]_

**Field use**

The Shanxi troops' initial reactions to the Karabiner 16, which they nicknamed the '98 rifle' after the model designation on the receiver, were mixed. It was a heavy, awkward weapon compared to the QBZ-95 and Type 81 assault rifles, while its low magazine capacity, stout recoil and poor rate of fire made it dangerous to use at close range. Troops often carried submachine guns as backup weapons, limiting their mobility.

Soldier Guo Hao described his experiences with the Kar16 in his autobiography:

_It took a long while to get used to the 98 rifle. It was good for hunting now and then, or picking off the odd smuggler, but that seemed to be all... We began to appreciate it better once we started receiving telescopic sights which we could mount on it... The 98 really proved its worth during the spring invasion, when we quickly learned that if a Japanese soldier was shot in the chest by it, he usually didn't get back up._

The Karabiner 16 gained prominence in the hands of the Shanxi Civil Guard during the invasion of Shanxi by the Aru-Japanese Alliance in early 2017. In the Battle of Taiyuan, sharpshooters firing from windows and rooftops offered such fierce resistance to the invading army that 'carrying a 98' became slang for stubborn, defiant behavior.

_[Caption: Guo Hao in 2017. He carries a Karabiner 16a with a 2.5x telescopic sight and a Chinese copy of the PPS-43 submachine gun.]_

Quantities of Kar16s were purchased by the Sino-Arumic Liaison and Dutch-Danish United Front, where they were issued to rearguard units and civil defense companies in order to free up more modern weapons for frontline service. They also gained a certain popularity on the front lines with marksmen and grenadiers, who could use a simplified copy of the German Schiessbecher grenade launcher attachment to fire Arume Type 5 concussion grenades with high accuracy. Other states on both sides of the global conflict gradually obtained the rifle and it was a common weapon during the Arume Civil War, where its simplicity and hardiness made it attractive to Arume fighters with little firearms experience.

_[Caption: Volunteers of the Deutsche Freiwilligen-Kompanie patrolling the Dutch coast, May 2018. A Karabiner 16c and a Karabiner 16d are visible.]_

Production of the Karabiner 16 by Eto Delo ended in 2023. Many of the rifles were sold as surplus following war's end, but a large number remain in national arsenals and, like the Karabiner 98k, have continued to appear in regional conflicts up to the present. Since the war, the Kar16 has become a popular rifle with civilian hunters and collectors due to its power, accuracy and historical connections.

**Variants**

**Karabiner 16a:** standard model, converted from Russian capture Kar98k rifles.

**Karabiner 16b:** alternate model, converted from Czechoslovakian Vz 24 rifles. The Kar16b can be distinguished by its non-curved bolt handle and two sets of sling swivels. It was the main variant produced during the Russian freeze on exports of the Kar98k, from early 2017 until late 2018. Initial conversions were performed on Vz 24s captured from the Wehrmacht or from Romania, while production during the freeze was continued using rifles purchased from South America.

**Karabiner 16c:** a 7.62x51mm version of the Kar16a, produced for the Dutch-Danish United Front.

**Karabiner 16d:** a 7.62mm version of the Kar16b, also for the DDUF.

**Karabiner 16e:** a 7.62mm model ordered by the government of India, based on the Kar16c. This version featured a magazine extension which increased its capacity to ten rounds and a unique stock with a trapdoor compartment and nose cap, patterned after that of the 7.62mm Rifle 2A1, an Indian variant of the Short Magazine Lee-Enfield. The contract was canceled when India entered the Second Layer War, and the approximately 3,400 completed 'Maufields' were ultimately sold to Australia. An unlicensed, less polished copy of the Kar16e was produced in India as the 7.62mm Rifle 4A.

**Karabiner 16f:** a rare variant similar to the Kar16d, produced as a stopgap during the Russian export freeze on the basis of the Spanish M1943 La Coruna rifle.

**M17:** a licensed copy of the Kar16 produced by Zastava Arms of Serbia, based on the Yugoslavian M24/47 and M48 Mauser rifles.

**Specifications (Karabiner 16a)**

**Weight:** 3.9 kg empty

**Length:** 1,115 mm

**Barrel length:** 605 mm

**Cartridge:** 7.92x57 mm

**Action:** manual rotating bolt, controlled feed

**Muzzle velocity:** 760 m/s

**Effective range:** 500 m with iron sights, 800 m with telescopic sight

**Feed system:** 5 round box magazine

[Links (Expand+)]

[Search Contact Site Policy]

Page accessed on 1 October 2038 18:40:59 UTC


	28. The Boundary of Maiden and Mother: B

_Part 25: The Boundary of Maiden and Mother, Phase B_

_Angkor, Siem Reap Province_

_Kingdom of Cambodia_

_February 28th, 2004_

"Sergeant? Sergeant, it's Cao..."

Bai Jingli opened an eye sluggishly. "Mmph?"

Private Cao squatted beside the reclining non-commissioned officer as Private Tang looked on. "We've finished our sweep. No direct contact."

"Humph." Bai sat up with grudging patience. "Any new taunts?"

Cao shook his head. "Just the usual. It's been quiet for about one and a quarter hours now."

"All right." The sergeant pulled himself up, leaning against the weathered stone wall he'd been sleeping beside, and stretched his limbs. His watch indicated he had been asleep for just over three hours. It felt like three minutes. "Rest easy," he offered sardonically, picking up his rifle. Leaving the two behind, Bai checked on Privates Kang and Liang and found them already awake. "Perimeter walk," he ordered. "Five minutes."

Kang simply nodded, smoothing mussed hair with a grimy hand before she placed her field cap over it. She stopped just long enough to collect her submachine gun before marching away, Liang following meekly behind. The pair's presence weighed heavily on Bai's mind, as it did on many days now, while he made his way to the west end of the rectangular island. Behind him the ruined towers of the Angkor Wat temple complex stretched jaggedly towards the heavy clouds that blanketed the sky overhead, savage reminders of why he and his comrades doggedly held their ground here.

Kang Li was sixteen years old. She'd joined the PLA ground forces after being rejected by the marines, her age overlooked when she passed through boot camp with high scores. The girl from Shanxi arrived in Cambodia a fervent patriot, and four merciless months on the front line only shaped her into a vicious, unrelenting fighter. If anything, she was _too_ effective – Bai now loathed to send her out, even though her efficacy as a raider had provided Angkor's defenders with many of the implements which prolonged their wretched lives. If he didn't rein her in, the sergeant told himself, he might wind up with a budding sociopath on his hands.

Liang Yongwei was barely a year older. He was Kang's only real friend in the unit, having served with her since basic training. He also worried Sergeant Bai: whereas Kang was brash and outspoken, Liang was quiet and brooding. The boy was hard to read, but the NCO suspected that the cruel rhythm of attack and defense, of skirmishing day and night, was wearing Liang down close to his breaking point. He might have fallen apart already were it not for Kang, and the pair had been utterly inseparable since the night a trio of cutthroats managed to slip across the moat unseen. Their blades had been sharp, but Kang's was faster.

Those kids were too young for this madness. Too young, but there was nothing Bai could do about it. His company had numbered a hundred and ninety men and women when it landed in Siem Reap at the end of October, and now the total strength stood at seventeen including himself. Unrelieved, stretched thin, open to attack from any direction, and with the only orders from above being a futile demand to hold their ground, those who were still alive became increasingly brutal in their manners and methods. There was no longer any pretense of civilized conduct in this war, no quarter given and no prisoners taken.

Today a heap of QBZ-95s lay quietly rusting in the shade of a collapsed wall, cast aside in favor of larger-caliber weapons seized from the enemy. The last of the company's medics, a brawny corporal named Feng, now pulled double duty as a sharpshooter and as such had armed himself with a pot-bellied, dog-legged .303 that bore British Raj markings and heavy battle scars. The machine gun deployed at the western entrance and the one rocket-propelled grenade launcher that still functioned were both prizes of the hit-and-run missions Bai authorized only with the highest reluctance. The RPG, like Kang's Vietnamese-reworked Shpagin clone and most of the Kalashnikovs which the others had appropriated, was made in China. The fact added a bitter irony to their situation.

Bai wasn't even sure who he was fighting anymore. Jemaah Islamiyah? Abu Sayyaf? The devastation and upheaval brought by the global catastrophe of 2000 caused an exponential rise in the number of fanatics willing to go out with a bang for their seventy-two virgins or whatever. Displaced fundamentalists flooded into Indochina from the ruined archipelago nations, joined by out-of-work veterans of the latest Indo-Pakistani conflict and the ethnic feuds in central Asia. In Cambodia, already reeling from the cumulative damage of Pol Pot and Second Impact, the militants sought a haven to build their strength. They showed their respect for the locals by murdering them wholesale, and their respect for the culture by burning and blasting its relics.

On paper, the Chinese government's decision to intervene on humanitarian grounds had probably looked like a great idea. If nothing else, it should have deflected foreign criticism of the way Beijing handled the Xinjiang separatists. In practice, the operation started to come apart in less than six weeks. Siem Reap finally fell on the last day of January, forcing the remnants of the company to make a fighting retreat into the ruins of Angkor and wait for a rescue which seemed more and more distant.

All Bai could do now, as the highest ranking survivor, was to try and hold things together until rescue arrived... or until the militants came to finish them off once and for all. They didn't hide their presence, but skulked about on the far shores of the moat, jeering and baiting in Malay, Arabic or broken English. There had been one insurgent who spoke passable Hakka, but he was one of the few foolish enough to not relocate between taunts. The soldiers hadn't heard anything from him for a while now, and the general feeling was that Feng had either managed to cap him in the dark or else placed a bullet close enough to scare the punk into silence.

Feng himself had no comment on the matter. The medic was whittling a short stick when Bai completed his roundabout trek to the western lookout post: a crude shiv to add to the pile he'd studiously fabricated for his comrades. He was already preparing for the final stages – in which each shiv would be fire-hardened and then coated in a cocktail of antiarin, strychnine and brucine – and was accordingly drafting plans to send Kang into the jungle to collect the raw ingredients he didn't yet have.

Bai took a dim view of the enterprise, but let it go for now – the shivs might still come in handy against all odds. "How goes it?" he asked quietly, bending low as he traversed the shallow trench which slashed across the path, its outer edge crudely fortified with logs and piled earth.

"Only two left," Feng reported. "I have just enough wood."

Bai made a noise of acknowledgment and turned his attention to Corporal Shen, presently manning the machine gun. "Anything to report?"

"Nothing." Shen picked up one of the Degtyarov's magazines. "It's quiet," he muttered. "Too quiet."

Bai nodded. "And when it isn't, it isn't quiet enough." He frowned slightly. "What are you doing there?"

"Mao told me there was some kind of trick to these things," Shen replied, fiddling with the flat pan. "I wish he'd written it down."

Bai could say the same about a lot of things. In addition to being a competent trooper, Private Mao had been the last one alive with a mechanic's background. There would be no more of his brilliantly improvised weapons or traps now that he lay in a shallow grave near the middle of the temple grounds. "Better not mess with that," the NCO advised. "We're short enough already."

"Yeah." Shen returned the magazine to its box. "I wish we hadn't spiked that mortar."

"We couldn't have dragged it all the way here," Bai pointed out, feeling very strongly that they'd gone over this before.

Shen let the matter drop, and they sat in silence for several minutes. Bai used the time to listen for signs of the enemy, of which he found none, and to inspect the trench and bulwark for erosion from the last rainfall, of which he found very little. He was about to leave and make an inspection of the northern flank when Cao came running towards him.

Running meant trouble: the sergeant rolled aside to make room as the private leaped into the trench. "Are we under attack?" he demanded.

Cao shook his head. "Liang... Liang raped Kang," he panted.

"What!"

"He came into camp crying, saying he 'hurt her' or something. I went to look..." Cao grimaced. "She was bleeding, I couldn't tell how bad."

_Oh, shit._ Of all the possibilities Bai _hadn't_ been counting on..! "Where are they now?"

"At the camp. Tang's watching Liang."

"All right... You stay here and watch the perimeter. Feng, on me – sharp!"

"Right behind you," the corporal grunted, grabbing his weapon and medical satchel on the way out. "Cao, don't touch my stuff!"

The two men made their four hundred meter dash in record time. The tableau which greeted them around the last corner made Bai's stomach lurch in a way that, somehow, even Major Meng falling into the sergeant's lap with half his face blown off hadn't. Liang was curled up in a corner, sobbing weakly. Tang stood over him, the bayonet of his Type 56 extended and held ready to strike the offender. Kang sat on the bedroll nearest the wall, staring at the ground. Her fatigue pants had been partly slashed away and hung off her legs in tatters. Her thighs were stained with red and white fluids, fast turning sticky as they dried on her skin.

There was a sharp intake of breath, and then Feng darted past Bai. "Lie down," the medic instructed. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

"My head," Kang groaned, sinking onto the bedroll. "The back..."

"He clubbed her," Tang supplied without turning around. "Knocked her down and did her from behind."

Air hissed past Bai's clenched teeth as he watched Feng examine Kang's head. "Well..?"

"Possibly a mild concussion," the other answered. "I'll need to monitor her for changes." Moving down to the foot of the roll, he produced a pair of scissors and cut away the remainder of the ruined pants. "Private, can you spread your legs for me? ...Good." Feng beckoned over his shoulder. "Sergeant, I need an extra hand here."

Bai was at his elbow in an instant. "What do I do?"

Feng handed him a penlight, then set about pulling a rubber glove over his right hand. "Shine it here," he instructed, pointing to the patient's nether region. "A little lower... That's good." He went to work with cool detachment, his expression a mask even when his probing drew a whimper from the supine girl. "Private, I understand you're in a lot of pain, but I don't have any analgesics that I can give you. Please try to bear with it."

Bai felt his jaw muscles tightening again and looked away from the center of trauma. His unwilling eyes missed no detail: the way Kang's exposed lower belly quivered, the short rise and fall of her chest, and the distant, empty look in her eyes when she turned her face towards her trembling assailant.

The quiver developing in his own hands didn't go unnoticed either: "Steady, Sergeant," Feng prompted.

The NCO took a deep breath. "Is it serious?"

"Slight tearing of the lower vaginal wall," Feng reported clinically. "The bleeding has mostly stopped." He straightened briefly, wiping sweat from his forehead. "It should heal, so long as she can avoid stress. The short-term priority will be to prevent infection." The medic pulled off his glove and reclaimed the penlight. "Let's check the head again... Pupils look all right. Do you feel dizzy or nauseous, Private?"

"A little dizzy..."

"Blurred vision or ringing in the ears?"

"No."

Bai followed the interaction with growing impatience. "Is that good or bad?"

"The signs are promising," Feng hedged, "but it's too early to be sure."

"How long until we know, then?"

"If her condition doesn't worsen in the next – "

_"Allahu akbar!"_

The shrill cry was repeated on one flank, then another, as the fanatics worked themselves into a savage, mindless frenzy. They were greeted by the chatter of the Degtyarov and a yell from Shen: _"May all your children be born with imperforate assholes!"_

"Wonderful," Bai muttered, pushing himself off the ground. "Tang – " He broke off, listening intently as more gunfire heralded a second attack. "Tang, reinforce the east trench. Feng, you stay here and keep working." Striding over to Liang, the NCO hoisted him up by the front of his shirt. "Come on, boy – here's your last chance to be a hero!"

* * *

"...Liang was last seen rushing at a group of insurgents with a grenade in each hand. Bai told me he was screaming, but the words were indistinct." Kang sat back in her chair, her expression contemplative. "I wonder..."

"What?"

The Chinese woman shook her head. "Nothing," she said. "The helicopters finally came for us two days later. By that time there were only eight left... In retrospect, I was very lucky."

"Lucky?" Renaril had listened to most of the narrative in rapt silence, but this finally moved her to speak out. "What part of this was _lucky?"_

"I survived," Kang replied matter-of-factly. "With no pregnancy, no infection and no injuries I couldn't recover from. There were women in other units who suffered far worse."

That really wasn't what the Arume wanted to hear about, though she had enough tact not to say so. "What happened after that?"

"I was in hospital for a few days, and then we were assigned to another unit as replacements. Sergeant Bai died on the first patrol."

Renaril's impression until now had been that Bai possessed a knack for staying alive. "The very first?"

"During an ambush, he lost his legs to a mine and shot himself so that he couldn't become a burden." The memory was evidently a painful one for the colonel. "The People's Liberation Army continued to hemorrhage lives and material in Cambodia for another eighteen months, then withdrew and turned the fight over to Vietnamese and Thai troops under a UN mandate... By then Corporal Feng and I were the only ones left who knew what had happened at Angkor. Feng left the army and settled abroad, while I... I think you know where I went from there."

Renaril nodded slowly. "Why... Why wasn't this on your service record?"

"We covered it up," said Kang plainly. "Feng and Bai had some connections..."

"But _why?_ Such a terrible thing happened to you, so – "

The soldier lifted a hand. "You must understand," she continued patiently. "It was not popular for a woman to choose a military career, especially at a time when common feeling was that women should concern themselves with... making up for population loss. The situation would have given those superiors who were of such mind the perfect excuse to discharge me." She tipped her head back, her dark eyes seeming to gaze right past the ceiling. "I had to keep fighting, to stay with my comrades and ensure the fallen didn't die needlessly... Besides that, Liang Yongwei's parents were good people. To be told what their son did – it would have crushed them."

"You've really... never told anyone?"

"No one," Kang confirmed. "Not even Schuhart knows this."

"But why?" the alien repeated. "You said other women suffered worse. Couldn't you use your experience to help them?"

"How would it help?" The colonel cocked her head. "There were women who were assaulted more than once, whose attackers walked free, who didn't have comrades with the courage to support them... And what of those who were captured by the enemy? How would my story do them any good?"

"..."

"There are more effective paths of justice." Kang folded her arms. "Let me tell you about one case which involved me personally," she went on, her voice softening again. "When I was a major in Liberia, there was a lieutenant among our troops who raped a woman in his platoon. His friends helped him cover it up, and they beat the victim when she tried to report the incident. When they threatened to rape her again, she committed suicide... The perpetrator might have gotten away with it, had he been more careful about whom he bragged to." She wrinkled her nose. "After his crime was discovered, I was drafted to take part in the court-martial, which returned four death sentences."

Renaril squirmed a little. Suddenly she was seeing both Schuhart's _demonstration_ and Kang's reaction it in a whole new light. "I'm sorry," she whispered at last. "It must be very painful to revisit this..."

"Twelve years is a long time," the elder woman replied. "Time enough to move on."

"That's, um... That's good, isn't it?" Once again Renaril found herself contemplating her toes. "Colonel, when I was little I was taught that sacrificing one's own... one's self for the sake of others was the most beautiful thing one could do." She raised her head slowly. "If you were an Arume, I think what you did would be considered very noble." The alien turned her face to the side. "But I... I can't see anything beautiful in this suffering..."

"That's trite propaganda," said Kang bluntly. "There's nothing beautiful about it." She leaned forward in her seat, resting her elbows on her knees. "As a child, I loved to hear my grandfather's stories of the old wars. Three of my great-grandparents were in the communist army, and another was with the nationalists. They fought against each other in the civil war, joined together against the Japanese invaders, fought each other again and then faced the Americans in Korea. To hear that old man tell it, they were fearless, flawless heroes... Some of the stories were probably true, but the rest was pure hyperbole." There was a gentle sigh. "I suppose learning the truth has been painful for both of us."

"I guess," Renaril agreed hesitantly, trying to revive her courage. "Um..."

"Yes?"

"Do you... prefer women because of what happened to you?"

"Ah." The question was not unexpected, it seemed. "No, my orientation has always been the same." This time it was the Chinese woman who averted her face. "I denied it for a long time, convinced I was merely being influenced by the preferences of the men around me... And then I fell in love."

"With Zheng Mei?"

"Yes..."

"Schuhart told me a little," the group commander confessed. "He said it was too bad you couldn't be together."

"He sounds more sentimental about it than I am." Kang sat in silence for several seconds, then squared herself. "I'm sorry, Renaril. I came here thinking I should cheer you up, not swamp you with old ghosts."

"It's all right," the alien assured her. "It might be better this way."

"Perhaps," the other conceded. "Now you know the truth. If you've changed your mind, I won't hold it against you."

Renaril gulped. "What if I haven't?"

Kang held her arms out from her sides. "Then the next move is yours."

"I – " The Arume bit her tongue and considered her next words carefully. "It... doesn't seem right to do it now," she began nervously, "so... maybe we could stay together tonight and see how things are in the morning?"

"As you like." Kang rose and bent to remove her shoes, placing them beside Renaril's own.

As she turned back towards the bed, Renaril pulled in a long breath, reached up to the collar of her uniform and slowly unzipped it down to the navel opening. _Please,_ she thought, her self-assurance dipping too low to sustain another verbal request. _Please understand..._

The object of her desire did understand: Kang turned her back, unfastening the buttons of her ever-standardized white shirt one by one. Renaril meanwhile averted her eyes reflexively, focusing her attention on wriggling out of her suit and folding it to a passable standard of neatness. Kang was already finished when she looked up again.

Renaril's heart started jackhammering almost immediately. Despite their proximity during work hours, she and Kang still maintained largely isolated personal lives: the Chinese woman rose before dawn, showered at odd hours and ate either on the fly or in the company of whatever troops or staff she happened to be working with when lunch break rolled around. This lifestyle had gone a long way towards thwarting the Arume's attempts to get closer to her colleague, but it didn't matter any more – here, in this little cabin aboard the massive station orbiting high above the planet's surface, the two women could see one another in their entirety for the first time.

Communal bathing and changing had been ordinary events in Renaril's academy days, and the experience of appearing nude in front of others was in no way strange to her... Yet now it was somehow as if none of that had ever happened, at least if the heat rising in the alien's cheeks was a reliable indicator. She swallowed again as she lifted her eyes to meet her opposite's.

Kang herself was blushing faintly as she examined her prospective bedmate, the unexpected sight of which bolstered Renaril. It was impossible not to compare the woman who faced her with the woman of her dreams: the skin was not quite so dark, the unconfined breasts a little bigger, the belly not perfectly flat but sculpted in a way the Arume found no less appealing. The only real cause for disappointment was the patch of unruly brown hair which concealed Kang's most intimate place, but Renaril thought of it only for a moment or two before she was distracted by other details.

She'd taken it for granted that the colonel would have scars somewhere on her body. If Kang were been horribly maimed in some fashion, the slender alien had reasoned, surely she would mention it. The pale marks Renaril saw were not particularly gruesome individually, but their number and placement elicited an unpleasant shiver. Going by just the obvious blemishes alone, the woman she was inviting into her bed had been shot through the shoulder, hip and thigh, and bore unmistakable traces of a curving blade cut running across her flank almost parallel to the bottom of her ribcage.

More unsettling even than that wound was the faint but not inconspicuous bite mark on the outer left part of Kang's collarbone. "The fanatics attack their enemies in any way they can," she explained, catching Renaril's stare.

Renaril shuddered. "That must have really hurt."

"It did." Kang cleared her throat. "Shall we..?"

"Erm, yes..." The Arume sat back on the bed and stretched out, taking care to leave plenty of space. She kept her eyes on the goal this time, as Kang padded forwards and laid herself beside the smaller female. "Comfortable?"

"I'm fine." Kang smiled – a rare enough thing in and of itself. "Good night."

"G'night," Renaril mumbled, tearing her eyes away from the fascinating expanse of skin before her. "Lights out." She waited as the room's automated circuits enacted her command, leaving the pair lying in darkness. "One last thing..."

"Hm?"

"When we're alone, can... can I call you 'Li'?"

"Mm-hm."

"Li?"

"Mm?"

Acting on the hope that Kang hadn't moved significantly since the lights dimmed, Renaril pushed herself forward until her upper body touched her opposite's warm flesh, craned her neck and gently pressed her lips against her elder's. Coming in the wake of her earlier ambitions, it seemed a strangely chaste form of contact. "...Thank you."

There was no answer, and Renaril began to fear that she had crossed an unspoken boundary. Her fear was swept away when Kang's arms slid around her and drew the alien into an embrace which, in all probability, neither of the two had ever experienced before.

The Arume no longer cared that her extravagant fantasies remained unfulfilled: this, however plain it might be in comparison, simply felt _right._

* * *

Renaril awoke with a dreadful feeling that something was _not_ right. The cabin was dark and quiet, and an outstretched hand confirmed what the group commander had already assumed: she was alone on the bed. _Fuck,_ she thought furiously, rolling over and burying her face in her pillow. _It WAS too good to be true!_

"Renaril?"

"Wuh..?" The alien blinked. "Lights medium slow."

Rolling over, she found Kang standing at the bed's edge. "Sorry," the soldier murmured, squinting a little as her eyes adjusted to the rising illumination. "Did I wake you?"

Renaril turned her eyes downward, praying her guest hadn't caught on to her irrational blast of despair. "I thought you'd... gone..."

"Only as far as the bathroom." The Chinese woman climbed onto the bed, aiming to return to her sleeping position.

The Arume had a different idea. She pushed herself sideways, occupying the middle of the bed: when Kang hesitated, Renaril leaned forward, took her by the wrists and tugged her onward until the smaller woman lay on her back, the larger looming over her on hands and knees. Renaril topped off the maneuver by impulsively pulling her partner-to-be into a second and much longer kiss. "Li," she breathed, feeling the familiar heat rising within herself as she sank back onto the mattress, "I... I'm ready."

"Now?"

"I want to do it before you leave," Renaril pleaded. "We might not get another chance."

"Very well..." Kang pushed herself up and backwards, so that she knelt between Renaril's spread thighs. "I don't have much practice," she warned, flexing her fingers. "If you feel discomfort, tell me."

"I will." Renaril closed her eyes and focused on taking deep, regular breaths. "...Eep!"

The colonel pulled her hand back. "Too hard?"

"N – no..." The Arume's hands each grabbed a fistful of the sheet underneath her trembling body. "Don't stop..." Try as she might, she couldn't stop the little squeaks and moans which slipped out as Kang developed a steady rhythm to her careful strokes. _What's wrong with me?_ Renaril wondered faintly. _Do I feel so good just because it's her touching me?_

After a few minutes in this groove – or maybe it was closer to several minutes – she pulled herself together enough to speak out. "In – inside..."

Kang looked down at her slick fingertips. "You're sure?"

Very sure. "Please... _Oooooooooh!"_

"You like that," Kang inferred. She let her index and middle fingers rest for a few moments, then made a gentle scissoring motion. "How's this?"

"That's... Aaahn!"

Renaril didn't last much longer: her partner's experimenting led her to the alien's sweet spot, pushing the petite woman over the edge. "Li, I – I'm..! _Kyaaaaaaaaaa!"_

The Chinese female slowed the pace of her ministrations as Renaril's inner muscles squeezed her fingers, the Arume's taut figure beaded with sweat droplets. Feeling the receiving body slacken, she withdrew her hand with the same restraint she'd exercised throughout. "Was that all right?"

"It was really good." Renaril was in truth far too inexperienced to call it _great_, but right now she wouldn't go back to lonely masturbation for anything. "I just wish I could, um... hold out longer."

"We can work on that next time," Kang pointed out, confirming – to Renaril's great joy – that she didn't view their encounter as a one-time affair. "Are you satisfied for the moment?"

"Yes..." Renaril sat up, rocking one way and then the other as she folded her legs under herself. "It's your turn now, Li."

"Me?" A dab of red crept into the soldier's cheeks. "I don't need – "

The group commander placed her hands on Kang's shoulders, preventing the latter from pulling away. "I want you to enjoy this too," she said firmly. "It's not fair if I'm the only one feeling good." Impatience began to get the better of her once more as she saw that Kang wouldn't budge so easily. Her dominant hand relaxed its grip, slipping off the shoulder, gliding down over the collarbone with its jagged bite scar and settling on the taller woman's breast. "Trust me," the Arume pleaded. "I promise I'll stop if you really don't like it."

Kang shivered, the motion resonating through the soft mass under Renaril's palm. "...Be gentle."

Renaril took the request to heart. Squeezing just a little rewarded her with the gratifying sensation of her opposite's brown nipple hardening against her own fair skin. _All right,_ she thought, _I can do this!_ Encouraged by the response, she started to slowly draw the fingers of her other hand down her elder's side.

And then the cabin door, which she had absolutely, positively locked at bedtime, opened with a cold pneumatic hiss. Beyond the threshold stood the very _last_ person Renaril wanted to see right now.

_"Mom!"_


	29. The Boundary of Maiden and Mother: C

_Part 26: The Boundary of Maiden and Mother, Phase C_

_Aboard _Magnanimous Hyacinth

_Earth Orbit, Third Universal Layer_

_April 26th, 2016_

"Well..." Daebaril raised an eyebrow. "This certainly is not what I expected."

Renaril cringed. "Mom, what... what are you _doing?"_

"I wanted to talk to you before you left for work," the elder Arume replied, stepping into the cabin and closing the door behind herself. "But I see you're going to be late anyway."

Kang rose from the bed, moving in front of Renaril protectively. "Senior Counselor," she intoned coldly, "if you feel your daughter is doing anything inappropriate – "

Daebaril waved her off. "By the first mother, not at all!" the alien laughed, catching her offspring by surprise a second time. "I had almost lost hope that she would ever work up the initiative!"

"Mom..!"

The complaint fell on deaf ears. "Hm..." the matriarch mused as she looked over Kang's body, seemingly oblivious to the hostility radiating from it. "Renaril, could you put something on and step outside? I'd like to speak briefly with the colonel."

Her mother's posture made it clear that no arguments would be accepted: Renaril pulled on her bodysuit and zipped it, still glaring resentfully as she walked to the door. "If you," she muttered under her breath, "do anything to Li – "

"Please," Daebaril interrupted reproachfully. "I'm in no mood to incur the wrath of that detestable man today."

Just when Renaril had convinced herself that there was absolutely _no_ reason to be grateful for the existence of Roland Schuhart, the arms dealer suddenly became a perfect counterweight... Not that she would _ever_ admit it to his face. The door slid shut behind her with another ominous hiss, leaving her alone in the cool, bright corridor. Minutes ticked by, one after another, but she had no watch with which to number them. What was her mother doing in there? What was she telling Kang? _Damn her!_ Renaril screamed in her mind. _Why can't she leave us alone?_

So engrossed was she in her internal misery that she very nearly missed the noise of the door reopening. "You're a very fortunate young lady," Daebaril announced, a profoundly uncharacteristic smile gracing her features. "She agreed."

"Agreed?" Renaril stared at her mother blankly. "Agreed to what?"

"Why, to bear your child, of course!"

The younger Arume's wide blue eyes all but turned into little blue screens of death. "Wuh... geh..?"

"I know it's a little sudden," Daebaril blithely went on, "but this is a rare opportunity. Do try and make it a pleasant experience for her, won't you?" She waited a few moments to see if her own child's panicked babbling would attain any coherence, pressing on when it didn't. "Anyway, the reason I came to see you in the first place was to tell you that your seed mother has finally been persuaded to take some time off from work. She'll be coming here to visit in ten days or so." The smile widened. "She would be delighted to hear that she has a granddaughter to look forward to, don't you think?"

Renaril watched her mother's back recede down the passageway in mute horror, then darted back into the cabin. _This can't be happening!_

* * *

_Eto Delo Girls' Dormitory_

_Hong Kong, China_

Richardson was awakened – not for the first time – by the sensation of Harrington's fingers probing between her legs. Feeling the comforting warmth of her partner's slim body pressing against her back, she relaxed and let the other gosta's instincts take control with a sigh of contentment.

When awake, it was Richardson who took the lead in their intimate activities. Sleeping, however, intermittently brought out an assertive aspect of her opposite's subconscious which she found both tender and thrilling. It would be a perfect arrangement, she thought, if only Harrington were able to retain some memory of the things she did in the night.

_I wonder if she's dreaming about me?_

They were just getting to the best part when Richardson was snapped out of her reverie by the sound of the dormitory door being unlatched. Experience told the gosta it was nothing to worry about, while training told her to be alert regardless. Pulling away from Harrington's encirclement, she leaned out and – also not for the first time – promptly bonked her head on the butt of the Springfield which hung from the corner of the bunk above her. The rifle slipped off and hit the carpet with a loud thump, followed by a metallic jangling as a dislodged bandoleer of .30-06 made its bid for freedom.

_Sauer!_ Richardson grimaced, rubbing her forehead gingerly. _You were supposed to secure those!_

The intruder was Astra. She stood frozen beside the door, wearing nothing but a sheepish grin. If her entrance hadn't woken the others, Richardson had finished the job for her: "Whozzat?" Korth murmured, poking her mussed head out from under the blanket she shared with Borchardt.

"Away making love to the pack leader again?" Sauer sighed in the bunk above Richardson and Harrington. She swung her bare legs over the side and lowered herself to the floor with a quick, fluid movement.

Richardson watched her with concern while Astra scampered off to her own bed. "Where are you going?" she whispered.

Sauer didn't answer. She bent to pick up the '03 and its bandoleer, then went around to the footlocker at the head of the stacked bunks. The other gosta could hear a rustle of fabric and inferred that she was changing out of the shorts and t-shirt she slept in.

"You're going to see her, aren't you?" Richardson pressed. "Even after what she said?"

"Who else?" Sauer reappeared, naked above the waist and with the end of a long strip of coarse fabric loosely wound around her small breasts. "Help me, please."

A heavy sense of pity fell on Richardson as she left her resting place and finished the binding, Camilla Laforey's overheard words echoing in her ears as she did so: _"If you were a boy, Sauer, I dare say I could have fallen in love with you."_

* * *

Renaril found Kang sitting on the bed with her dress shirt draped over her shoulders. It took the Arume several seconds to find her next words. "You... Did you really agree to..?"

"I told her I would consider it," the Chinese women replied modestly. "You oppose the idea?"

"I... well... It's not that I'm _totally_ against it – I mean, I assumed I would have to do it eventually, but... that is..."

"I understand." The colonel stood up, shedding the shirt in the process. "You would rather wait."

"I, um..." Renaril had to avert her eyes from the tantalizing display of skin before her. "Actually, I... It's complicated..."

"We still have a little time," said Kang mildly. "Tell me."

What Renaril wanted was to indulge her nearly magnetic attraction to the comfort zone formed by her elder's cleavage. She took a step in that direction, then another and, meeting no resistance, eased herself into Kang's waiting embrace. "How much did Mom say?" she murmured, nuzzling her companion's clavicle.

"She explained your... obligations," Kang answered, gently stroking the Arume's back. "But she said nothing about your personal wishes."

"I..." Renaril swallowed. "I wasn't born because my parents loved each other. Their genes were compatible, that was all... A lot of Arume produce children that way, for the good of the race, but I... I wanted to wait until I found the right person." She lifted her chin, finding that Kang's brown eyes, which had been so cold when they first looked upon her, now offered incomparable warmth. "This all must sound strange to you..."

Kang hugged her closer. "Don't be so sure," she said. "What you're describing isn't so different from arranged marriages based on family interests."

"Mm..." The alien snuggled up to her partner. "Li, I would be honored if you – if _we_ had a child together, and yet somehow it... it feels wrong to do that." She drew back, her fingers slipping down Kang's flank and over her hip. "Your strength, your beauty... I can't take them away fro – ow!"

"What are you saying?" the officer chided, pinching her junior's cheek. "Do you think I would turn into a balloon overnight?"

"Well, no... but still – !"

"If this is what you really want," said Kang firmly, "then I'll do my part."

To Renaril's ears, it still sounded too good to be true. "Then you... you also want children?"

"It's a responsibility for me as well," the colonel divulged, "though I've never found an acceptable arrangement before now. I had no male friends whom I could, er, prevail upon, and I wasn't comfortable with adoption or the idea of using a stranger's... _material."_

The Arume re-approached her. "Is it really all right if it's me?"

"Yes, although... I'll be honest with you," Kang went on, a measure of seriousness coming back into her posture. "Your mother pointed out that there are significant practical incentives for birthing an Arume's child – not the least of them being its credit towards our safety from, shall I say, friendly fire."

"Stop," Renaril pleaded. "Don't remind me of that."

"As you wish," the bigger woman sighed. "The impregnation process is not complex, I understand."

"Oh yes, it's really simple. We can do it by ourselves... once we're ready, I mean."

"Then so be it. Your room or mine?"

"Wha..?" Renaril briefly contemplated asking Kang to pinch her again. "You want to do it _tonight?"_

"Your mother expects us not to waste time. Besides, I..." Kang blushed a little. "I haven't been monitoring myself as thoroughly as I should, but I expect to ovulate in the next few days. Our windows of opportunity will be narrow even if we don't find ourselves distracted."

"That's true, but..." The group commander bit her lip. "Can I think about it some more? If I don't change my mind, I'll bring the kit when I see you this evening, all right?"

"Of course," said Kang generously. "My room, then?"

"Mm."

"Very well." The colonel looked down at herself. "I believe I need a shower."

"Me too." A hopeful look arose on Renaril's face. "Can we..?"

* * *

_Six hours later_

Mari felt a little apprehensive. She wasn't sure why – the summons she hastened to answer was neither urgent nor ominous – but she knew the feeling too well to be mistaken. Perhaps it was merely on account of the occasion being her first visit to the 'pattern room' underneath her new employer's offices. Past the vault-like door, however, the room itself was quite plain: a wide space with walls of bare concrete and endless lines of florescent lights. The floor space was divided by long double-sided display cases full of small arms, each specimen accompanied by a card detailing its make, model, year of manufacture, known service history and notable characteristics. There was nothing odd about a military company maintaining a reference collection, but Mari had a strong suspicion that Eto Delo didn't get many orders for Kropatscheks or Gewehr 71/84s.

She found Schuhart on the far side, making notations on a clipboard beside an unfilled case. "We're going to need more space," he remarked as his visitor drew near. "Might as well open a museum while we're at it."

_Whatever you like,_ Mari didn't say. "You wanted to see me?"

"Yup." The scarred man went over to another case and critically inspected the Hotchkiss within. "Are you fitting in all right? Making any friends?"

Those long, bitter days on the Scandinavian front had taught Mari not to make friends quickly. Who knew how long any of them would survive? "Your gosta seem to like me," she replied guardedly.

"Congratulations," said Schuhart. "You're one of the 'good people' now."

There had been gosta in Finland, too – runaways and escapees who sought refuge with the defending armies. They had never been combatants, though: cooks, fixers, companions for those who were so inclined, even, but Mari had never seen one pick up a gun to save herself. This man's adopted orphans were in a class of their own. "Was there anything else?"

"Yeah." Schuhart turned around, tucking the clipboard under his arm. "Majestic Two sends her regards."

Mari's impassive hunter face didn't spring up quite in the nick of time. "You..?"

"I know more than I should and less than I'd like," the man grumbled. "Anyway, she said to tell you that somebody called 'the Butcher of Tallinn' is coming to visit. Kind of a big deal, I gather."

"A big deal?" Mari sputtered, briefly forgetting that she wasn't in the second layer any more. "Don't you know about her?"

"No," said Schuhart flatly. "I'm an arms dealer, not Edgar Hoover."

"Of course not." The Japanese exile took a moment to calm herself. "She's coming here?"

"Guangzhou, at any rate. Probably going to drop in at the DDUF and AKA, too. Don't know what she's after yet, if anything."

"Don't worry, she'll _find_ something." Mari cocked her head. "What is our response?"

"Yui says it's not safe to hit this one, so it looks like we'll be sitting tight." Schuhart raised his hands before Mari could object. "She knew you wouldn't like that, but she insisted the risks were too big."

_So that's how it is._ "Of course... Will that be all?"

"Not quite." A ghost of a smile passed over the one-eyed man's face. "I said _we_ aren't going to take on this 'butcher'... I never said she would make it back from our layer alive." He reached into his pocket and took out a fat, elongate cartridge casing. "I reckon it's a job for Hakim."

"Hakim?"

"Oh, you wouldn't know him, sorry... He's good at this kind of work – officially retired now, but we pay his pension and look after his toys. The crazy old man still takes the odd assignment for us."

Mari had seen some true-and-tested madmen in the northern retreat, the second layer's Phil Darwin being a comparatively tame case. "How crazy are we talking about?"

"He has one particular idiosyncrasy," Schuhart explained, handing her the rimmed brass tube. "He thinks modern weapons make his work too easy, so he won't use anything made after about 1890."

The arctic stalker wasn't exactly a pinnacle of technological modernity herself, but the .45-70 casing between her fingers hailed from another generation altogether. "What does he use, then?"

"Well, he did most of his last north African tour with a scoped Lebel and then he switched to a Martini-Enfield for a while. I hear he once made a kill with a Tanegashima to win a bet... Anyway, Nereus just fixed up a nice Remington-Lee for him." The dealer nodded towards the cartridge. "I'm sure he's itching to try it out."

"On the Butcher?"

"On the Butcher." The smile came back. "MJ-Two strongly implied that the target is an elusive little beastie. We'll see how well she eludes a five hundred grain slug."

_That's better._ "If this Hakim can do it, he'll be saving a lot of lives," said Mari fervently.

"Suppose so." Schuhart went back to his clipboard. "Just wanted to give you a heads-up on that... By the way, have you thought of a submission for the next _Useless Tip of the Month_?"

"No... You?"

"Mine is 'Time travelers suck, stay away from them.'" The man shrugged. "I'll probably lose to Daemon again."

* * *

_Sino-Arumic Liaison HQ_

_Guangzhou, China_

Renaril thought about the matter off and on for the rest of the day, to little effect. After turning over the command center to the night shift and seeing the loyal and steadfast duo of Negadael and Eripol off to bed, she went to her room, combed and retied her hair, brushed her teeth, collected the essential package and quietly yet resolutely set out.

The walk to Colonel Kang's door was at once too long and too short. "Li..?" the alien called softly, gingerly applying her knuckles to the dark wood.

The loud _clack_ of the latch nearly made her jump. "Come in," said Kang, moving aside.

The soldier wore a bathrobe that was at least two sizes too large, which was fine as far as Renaril cared. She stole little glances to either side as she kicked off her shoes and followed Kang to the bed, gleaning whatever information she could about her opposite's personal life. These quarters somehow felt sterile and barren despite being far from empty: the bookshelf was packed from top to bottom, and loose volumes were piled on the desk and bedside table alike. Most of them were in Chinese, which Renaril could still read only fragments of, though a good number bore notable faces on their covers. Were this not such a momentous occasion, she would have laughed at the juxtaposition which appeared to depict Winston Churchill high-fiving Ho Chi Minh.

"So," said Kang, turning to face her, "here we are. Is there anything you need before we begin?"

"Uh, no... No, I'm all set." The Arume laid her box on the table next to the bed. "You, um... you have to be wet inside for the implanting to work, so..." It might have been absurd, but she just couldn't bring herself to say 'so we need to have sex first' out loud. Instead she fell back on the dependable standby of body language, unzipping her uniform and letting it fall from her slim frame.

There was no real need for her to spell out her wishes. Kang untied the sash of the robe and let the pale green article slip off her shoulders. What Renaril beheld as it fell away drew a gasp: the pubic hair which had frustrated her earlier was gone, not a wisp of it anywhere to be seen. "Is it all right?" the oriental female asked, her cheeks reddening. "I thought it might make this easier..."

"It's perfect," Renaril breathed reverently. She gazed in awe for what seemed like all of a minute, only to catch herself starting to reach out unbidden. "Can... Can I touch?"

Her reward was an encouraging smile. "Isn't that the point?"

They drew together almost as one. Renaril curled one arm around Kang's back and stood on tiptoe to kiss her, prolonging the contact as long as she could before reaching down with her free arm. The faintest of tremors ran through the scarred fighter's body as the alien's hand cupped her bare womanhood. Its heat sank into Renaril's fingers immediately, jolting her heart to a frantic cadence. The mound was not perfectly smooth, she realized, but had patches which were almost prickly to the touch.

The fact that she noticed was noticed in itself. "I'm sorry," Kang whispered once the kiss was broken. "I've never shaved completely before."

"It's fine," the Arume insisted, "it's really fine... You didn't cut yourself, did you?"

"No."

"I'm glad," Renaril breathed, sinking back onto her heels. "I hope it wasn't too much trouble."

"I'll get used to it." Kang shivered as the alien made an exploratory movement. "Wait..."

Renaril pulled her hand back as if she'd touched a hot iron. "Am I going too far?"

"No, no – I merely thought..." Now the looks of embarrassment were mutual. "Wouldn't this be easier if we were lying down?"

"Oh!" Renaril laughed nervously. "Erm, yes... Yes, it would be." She released her grasp and stepped back, admiring how the glow from the lamp on the table played over her lover's body – she was definitely thinking in such terms by now – as the other woman lay back on the bed. The soldier made ready to receive her there, but she instead clambered onto the foot of the mattress. Pressing lightly with trembling fingers, the group commander coaxed Kang into spreading her legs wide. "Wow..."

Kang squirmed a little under the intensity of the Arume's gaze. "Is there... something weird about it?"

The alien shook her head vehemently. "So pretty," she declared. "Like a flower." Renaril had, in truth, entertained fears that her partner's nether hair concealed some disfigurement left by the colonel's violation in that faraway jungle, but now she knew for sure that those fears were unsupported. Knowing was half the battle, as they said, and it boosted her courage to new heights. _Here goes,_ she thought gamely, running her tongue around her lips. Marshaling her determination to impress the woman before her, Renaril inhaled sharply through her nose and dove in for the kill.

_Ick!_

"Eek!" Kang brought her knees together with a beartrap's speed. "Wh-what are you _doing?"_

Trapped between muscular thighs, the petite one could only look up at her apologetically. "This is supposed to feel really, really good..."

"It doesn't feel good when I'm watching you force yourself," the colonel sighed, releasing her paramour-apparent. "I must taste awful."

Renaril shook her head again, even as she scraped her tongue against her incisors. "It's okay," she insisted, putting on a brave face. "I just thought it would be... sweeter, I guess."

"Sweeter?" Kang repeated incredulously. "Why would my vulva be sweet?"

"At the academy, the girls with experience always said it would taste like..." Renaril trailed off as she began to remember the sheer number of alleged flavors and the obvious improbability of most of them. "...Sorry."

"Never mind it," the Chinese woman opined, sitting up with a grunt. "If I simply need to be lubricated, perhaps I should – "

"Don't." The Arume caught Kang's wrist as she reached between her legs. "Please, this is something I have to do."

"If you're sure." The elder lay back once more, closing her eyes as she settled onto the rumpled pillow. "But better keep to the basics."

"Mm." Pushing away her feelings of self-inflicted humiliation, Renaril flexed her fingers and went to work.

What ensued was not the expected reversal of their morning encounter: the minutes dragged by, but no matter how long the alien caressed, stroked and petted, she failed to elicit any strong reactions. The heat and wetness were there, but none of the moaning or sighing she so wanted to draw out. She might not have even recognized the end when it came, had she not felt those inner walls contracting around her fingers. Kang held her breath as she rode out the orgasm, a constricted grunt escaping her throat when her body relaxed.

Renaril felt cheated, and simultaneously felt guilty for that. "...Can I try again?"

"Not on a night when I need to rise early," the soldier answered. "I'll set aside some time for us to practice once I come back from Japan, all right?"

"Okay..." The Arume climbed off the bed with heavy reluctance, even though she was back upon it as soon as she had the little box. "I guess it's time," she said, shivering momentarily with anticipation as she opened the long and narrow package. "Are you really, really sure you want this?"

"As long as you are."

Inside the box were printed instructions, which Renaril had been sufficiently motivated to read in advance, the white nanomachine capsule itself, and a tube made of translucent polymer. _Optional component,_ the instructions read in regard to that last item. _Enhances reliability of conception._

Kang's bemused eyes fixed on the tube as Renaril inspected it. "Is that a straw?"

"Yeah..." Now that she thought about it, it really did look stupidly similar to one of those plastic drinking tubes the forime used: the Arume could just as well have pinched one from the mess hall. Laying the straw down the centerline of her palm, she pinched the outer end between her middle and ring fingers. "I'm putting it in."

Plan A didn't work out quite as well as envisioned, as Renaril quickly discovered that she couldn't bend her remaining fingers far enough out of the way to attain maximum depth. _Close enough,_ she figured when she was in as far as she could go, and pushed the straw further on its own.

It was not the greatest Plan B ever. "Ow!" Kang yelped as the straw's tip jabbed her cervix. "It's in, it's in!"

"S-sorry," Renaril stammered, backing her hand out gingerly. _Come on!_ she chastised herself bitterly. _Can't I ever stop screwing up?_ The next phase was a blessedly simple one: plucking the capsule from its package, the group commander popped it into her mouth, bit down and began swirling as much saliva around it as she could muster.

_Yuck!_

The instructions warned that the compound would have a bitter taste. They in no way prepared her for the vileness she tasted right now. _Four-one thousand,_ Renaril chanted mentally as the mix thickened, _five-one thousand, six-one thousand..._ At ten seconds, the alien bowed her head, pursed her lips around the exposed end of the straw and expelled the slime as quick as was physically possible. "Be right back," she gasped, springing up at once, and fled to the bathroom.

The aftertaste didn't appreciably abate until the third mouthwash, and it took two more rinses to bring it down to a tolerable level. "Sorry," Renaril mumbled once she was finished. "That _did_ taste awful." Returning to her former place, she carefully extracted the tube from Kang's body, put it in the box and put the box aside. "Anyway, it's done," she announced, offering a wan smile. "You should stay on your back for a little while, until you've absorbed the seed."

"Of course." Kang motioned for Renaril to lie beside her, then reached out to the light and switched it off.

The Arume obeyed the summons, pulling up the fringe of the bed's thin blanket behind herself, and nestled against her partner's side. "Good night, Li."

"Renaril..."

"Hm?"

"Is there a quick way to know if it worked? A test of some kind?"

"Yes." Renaril smiled in the dark. "But you might feel it right away."

"Feel it?"

"Mm-hm... With Arume seed, there's – I don't remember exactly how it works, but sometimes there's a reaction. It makes a warm feeling inside."

"And if I feel that, I'll know for sure?"

"Yes."

"All right... Good night, Renaril."

The Chinese veteran soon passed into blissful slumber. Her companion lay awake awhile longer, savoring their intimacy until her eyelids began to droop. Only then did she whisper the words she'd recited a thousandfold in her mind yet never before spoken aloud.

"I love you."

Twelve hours later she would find herself wondering if it had been a tragically premature profession.


	30. Lycoris radiata

(It's true, reading TVTropes will ruin your life.)

_Part 27: Lycoris radiata_

"Say, Hagino..."

"Yes?"

"What's your planet like?"

Dark eyes briefly flicked up from the scissors grasped between the long-haired girl's fingers. "Our planet?"

"Commander – "

Hagino raised a hand before Tsubael, perched ephemerally atop Mari's desk, could launch into another righteous lecture on the perils of sharing sensitive information with a mere barbarian. "Fundamentally speaking, it's not very different from yours," she said thoughtfully. "Our population is small compared to the forime, so there is less pollution..."

"But it wouldn't look strange to us, right?" Mari wasn't even pretending to cut her own sheet of construction paper now. "I mean, you have roads and cities and farms... Stuff like that?"

"Yes, we do. Why do you ask?"

The schoolgirl shrugged. "Just curious, I guess."

"We have Ferris wheels, too," Tsubael chimed in smugly. "But since we invented them first, they should really be called Libadil's skywalkers."

"Pfft..!"

"Hey, I'm serious!" The Arume navigator scowled as Mari began to snicker, matched by a most unrefined giggle from Hagino. "We also invented roller coasters, laser tag and the phased-plasma pulse – ack!"

"Ooh!" Mari needled, grinning ear-to-ear. "Who's giving away secrets now?"

"Why, you little... Humph!" Tsubael folded her slim arms. "Commander, I'm going back to the ship."

"As you wish," Hagino replied unconcernedly, snipping away at her paper once more.

Tsubael phased out with no further remarks, leaving Mari and Hagino alone in their dorm room. Hagino went on cutting, but Mari's mind seemed elsewhere. "Hey," the latter prompted after a span of maybe three or four minutes.

"Yes?"

"Do you think we could ever... visit your planet? Together?"

"Perhaps." To Mari, Hagino sounded reluctantly noncommittal. "Would you like that?"

"Yeah..."

"Then maybe someday we will." _Snip-snip-snip!_ "Mari-san, you aren't working."

"Of course I am! I was just, uh, taking a break, that's all!" Snatching up her own scissors, Mari tried to hastily chop through a length of her material and succeeded only in inflicting a jagged, zigzagging gash. "Uh oh..."

Her situation was not improved by the boisterous entrance of Funatsumaru Hiroko. "Haigno!" the dorm chief boomed cheerfully, the wide span of her favorite _KEEP WEIGHT_ shirt filling the doorway. "How are the templates coming along?"

"I'm very sorry," the disguised alien answered modestly. "We need a little more time."

"Sure, sure." Hiroko nodded sagely, eying Mari's mangled sheet. "I know just the thing to motivate you. Be right back!" She hustled away as quickly as she'd arrived, her lumbering footfalls resounding along the corridor.

"We can still use that," Hagino advised when Mari seemed poised to crumple up the damaged paper. "Just set it aside."

"Okay..."

"Oi, oi." Akane, meanwhile, had arrived under cover of Hiroko's exit. She leaned against the doorframe, the swizzle stick in her mouth twitching as she surveyed Mari's progress. "You're sure you don't want any help?"

"I'm fine," the shorter girl declared. "Anyway, aren't you supposed to be fitting your costume?"

"The bard had a brainwave," Akane explained dryly, inclining her head to the side as Michiko could be heard fussing to herself in the distance. "When we go for the next group session, don't say I didn't warn you."

"Nah... It can't be that bad, right?"

"We'll find out soon enough." The culinary brawler straightened. "I'd better go make sure she isn't working herself into another faint."

Mari was just picking up her scissors again when Akane let loose an outraged cry somewhere near the stairs: _"Where are you going with my biscuits?"_

* * *

_Present Day – April 27th_

Sixteen years had now passed, and the dreams still frustrated Mari. The bad ones robbed her of rest and the good ones filled the hunter with resentment for all that she had been unjustly denied. The innocuous ones were, if anything, worse: it was becoming hard to reliably tell memory apart from fantasy. Had she actually asked Hagino about the Arume homeworld back then, or was her subconscious treacherously inserting anachronistic details into the setting she most longed for?

_Screw this,_ she told herself, her thoughts taking on the characteristic hard edge forged and tempered by a half-life of toil and misery. The clock perched on the headboard showed her that she had woken near enough to her customary time, so she rolled out of bed and pulled on her work clothes in the dark, leaving the sheets and blanket in disarray as she slipped out. A faint glow shone in the eastern sky when she left the dormitory and crossed the spread of cracked tarmac between that building and Eto Delo's main offices. As usual, there was no sentry at the door – the security staff here kept themselves out of sight unless called upon. Mari went inside and made a beeline for the employee lounge on the ground floor.

The lounge was empty, which was expected and yet made her uncomfortable. It wasn't like the canteens she'd frequented in Joensuu, Puolanka or Rovaniemi, where she could count on finding company at any hour. Those were the places, in the fleeting intervals between engagements, where one was able to put aside the strain of endless war for a little while, to sit and joke or listen to songs from faraway countries. The canteens stayed busy even in the heat of battle, as patrols coming back from the front stepped inside to rest their feet and pass along the latest developments to the offline troops.

_Stop it._ Mari shook her head as she went to the long counter along the left-hand wall and booted up the primary coffee maker. _That's all over now._

While the machine gurgled anemically, she wandered over to the bulletin board on the wall beside the corner refrigerator. Most of the scraps pinned to it were in Russian, with a heavy flavoring of _mat_ despite the terse prohibition of profanity which Daemon had placed at the cork panel's top. One item caught her eye among the swarm: a column clipped from an American newspaper. It was an op-ed pertaining to the present tensions in east Asia, and to call it unsympathetic to the Sino-Arumic Liaison would not do the content justice.

Someone had circled the last lines of the piece with a black ballpoint, and underlined the final sentence for good measure: _The time has come to put aside our habit of comfortable, complacent saber-rattling. We must be resolute in our vigilance if we wish to preserve our God-given freedoms and uphold America's rightful place as leader of the free world. If the hydra of communism is not to be checked at the negotiating table, only one course remains open. As our forebears sang, 'underneath the starry flag, civilize them with a Krag, and return us to our beloved home.'_

Below those belligerent words, the highlighter had scrawled an opinion of his own: _This is why we don't get nice things._

An especially loud gurgle and a crisp buzz drew Mari back to the coffee machine. Taking a paper cup from the adjacent stack, she detached the pot from the system and commenced pouring. It was funny, she thought as she watched aromatic steam rising off the brown liquid, that she had become so accustomed to the stuff. When had that happened?

"Nnngh..." Turning around, Mari discovered Roland Schuhart blearily regarding her over the back of one of the lounge's sofas. "Morning, Sawakaze," he mumbled. "Wha'sup?"

"Nothing." The displaced woman went back to her drink. "Why are you..?"

"Locked myself out of my room again," the dealer confessed, stretching his arms. "Hadda leave early anyway, so it wasn't worth raisin' a fuss."

_That's right, he's flying to Japan today._ "Good luck at the summit."

"Don't bother." Schuhart stood up and went to the vending machine at the other end of the counter. "I'm not going with any great expectations." A series of clanks and tinkles detailed the course of his pocket change through the contraption's guts. "Didn't think they'd even take my application, seeing as our little enclave isn't formally recognized. I suppose I owe the good colonel for that."

Mari tested her coffee and concluded that it was inadequately sweet. "Colonel Kang is also attending, yes?"

"She is." The one-eyed man bent down and took a can of fruit juice from the wide slot at the bottom of the machine. "And you can be sure those miserable monkeys are going to throw shit at her every chance they get."

Mari considered herself to be still on the fence regarding Kang Li, but she had no stomach for smear campaigns. "Are they still fixated on those nude paintings she was in?"

"Those were just fuel for the fire." _Pshhh..!_ "She's gay and she's a loathsome godless commie." The sarcastic tone arrived in tandem with a grimace that twisted Schuhart's facial scars. "Either one would make her an easy target by itself... Hell, just being Chinese is evil enough for some people."

The hunter's nose wrinkled. "The Americans?"

"Some of them." Schuhart nodded towards the newspaper clipping. "Stinking hypocrites howling about the human rights record while they line up to bash our best hope for reform... But frankly I'm more worried about the Japanese ultranationalists right now."

Mari racked her childhood memories as she tore open another packet of sugar. "The kind who ride around in black vans and play loud music?"

"That crowd, yeah." The arms dealer sipped his juice contemplatively. "After Second Impact, this one outfit called the Great Sun Society absorbed most of the smaller groups... Now their militia wing outguns the Yakuza in most prefectures, never mind the police. They've got lots of political clout, so the authorities don't touch 'em. You can be sure they'll be out in force today."

"I see." The coffee finally tasted right, but it still needed a minute to cool. "By the way..."

"Hm?"

Mari wrapped a napkin around her cup and went around to the closest sofa. "I've been thinking about what you said," she announced, sitting down and placing the cup on the low table in the middle of the room. "About Hakim, I mean."

"I thought you'd bring that up sooner." Schuhart sat on the other sofa, resting the juice can on his knee. "You want your own shot at the Butcher, am I right?"

"It doesn't have to be me," Mari replied. "I just... The Butcher of Tallinn has survived several attempts already. She's a cunning one, and if this Hakim can't handle her – "

"If he can't," the arms dealer cut in, "we'll have someone else standing by... But like I said, it's too dangerous to do it here." _Slurp!_ "Forgive me for prying, but is there something personal about this?"

"Not this one. There were others, but I... I took care of them a long time ago." Images flashed through Mari's mind. _The one who tortured Headmaster Fukamachi. The one who enslaved my classmates. The one who defiled Hagino's grave._ "With the Butcher, it's more like a duty thing."

"Ah..." Another slurp. "If it weren't for the delicate situation, I expect the job would be all yours."

"You're flattering me."

"I mean it." Schuhart turned the can around and squinted at the label. "Does this really have mango in it? I can't taste it at all."

"I haven't tried it." The non sequitur derailed Mari's train of thought, but it also prompted her to finally catch up on the drinking.

"In the meantime," her companion said suddenly, "our mutual acquaintance called again."

The miffed tone cinched Mari's assumption that he meant Yui. "She did?"

"Yeah." _Slurp!_ "Do you remember a navy pilot named Azanael?"

"Yes..." The adjectives 'butch' and 'bitter' sprang to mind hand in hand. "I haven't seen her since the invasion."

"Apparently she was persona non grata for a while, but she's a friend of a friend of Renaril and the friend in the middle got her a posting in Guangzhou. Right now she's in Vladivostok, checking out a military airshow for the Liaison." The blond cyclops drained his juice and plonked the can down on the table. "She knows there's _stuff_ going on."

"She knows about... that?"

"Maybe not by name, but she knows it exists... She was one of the hostages their strike team rescued from Yuen Long in the big brawl, and she must have heard or seen enough to start asking questions." Schuhart rolled his head around on his shoulders. "That's better... Our friend the chivalrous pervert seems to think this pilot is a potential recruit, apart from some emotional problems." He folded his hairy arms across the front of his drab vest. "No thanks to her for completely missing this in the first place."

It was certainly an unwelcome complication. "What should we do?"

"Dunno yet." Schuhart cocked his head. "I kind of think it might be better to let her know you're alive. If she recognized you in the open, she might panic and do something that would blow your cover... But telling her the truth relies on her being trustworthy. I haven't met her myself, but Phil and KK tell me she's not a fan of the party line."

"She shouldn't be," Mari replied. "Back then, her own commander murdered her lover and manipulated her into helping cover it up."

"Ouch." The man with the artificially stiffened limb pushed himself onto his feet. "Well, there you have it. If you could give me an opinion when I get back, that'd be helpful."

"Actually – " Mari bit back the words at first, but decided she might as well go through with her request. "Is there some way I could go?"

"What, today?" Schuhart blinked. "Well... Sure, why not. How fast can you pack?"

"I can be ready in ten minutes."

"And I can have the paperwork done in fifteen... Gotta warn you, we're traveling economy class and you can't bring weapons. There _will_ be Arume."

"I can deal with that." Mari tossed the cup back and chugged down the remaining coffee. "They won't be looking for me."

"True, but on the other hand..." Schuhart thought for a second, then his face brightened. "Nah, it's fine. If you get spotted, we'll just say you're you."

"...You'll what?"

"Daemon sniffed around for me when you first arrived. The Wakatake Mari of this layer was killed in the bombing which destroyed Tokyo, along with her family. No body was ever found." The man shrugged. "It's a little gruesome, but the sky eyes can't prove you aren't her."

"Good enough." Mari also stood. "Back here in fifteen minutes?"

"We're heading out in – let's see... forty-two. Sooner is better, of course."

"I'll be waiting." The hunter offered a tired smile of appreciation as she disposed of her cup. "I assume you'll take this out of my pay?"

"Nah," the other sighed, tossing his can into the narrow recycling bin. "I know what it's like, not being able to go home." He headed for the door, cramming his hands into his pockets. "See you in a bit."

* * *

Kang Li was jolted awake by the sensation of something tugging at her nipple. The soldier tensed, hands balling into fists, then relaxed as she became fully cognizant of her situation. She had turned onto her side during the night and now Renaril was pressed up against her front, a slim leg draped over the colonel's uppermost flank. The alien slept on, still suckling unperturbed. A low noise, somewhere between a mewl and a growl, rose in her throat when Kang tried to pull away.

"Really," the Chinese woman sighed, "you're so childish."

She started to push Renaril off a second time, but a pang of unfamiliar emotion gave her pause. There were times, especially of late, when she had experienced some kind of irrational affection for the frail and frequently distressed Arume, yet this was something stronger. Kang tried to compare it with the feelings she once felt towards her brothers and sisters in arms, but it didn't fit cleanly with those. Lying confused in the dark, she was abruptly stricken by a desire to pull Renaril tight against her own body and hold her until daylight came.

The impulse ran contrary to everything she had planned when she entered into this relationship. _Don't do it,_ Kang commanded herself. _Don't give her the wrong idea._

She did it anyway, surrendering to the protective instinct. It couldn't do any harm, the fighter rationalized desperately, and it gave her a feeling of pleasurable warmth which had never manifested when she submitted to Renaril's inept lovemaking... And then the alarm clock went off. The Arume twitched, clamping down on tender flesh and propelling a surge of pain through her opposite's breast.

This indignity finally exhausted Kang's patience: she broke away, a venomous hiss passing between her teeth, and smacked the wheedling device. Renaril stirred at last when the colonel switched on the light. "Li..? What's wrong?"

Kang held her tongue until after she verified that she wasn't bleeding. "...Don't do that."

"Do what?" Squirming over to the side of the bed, the group commander saw the telltale sheen of saliva on the bruised nipple and connected the dots. "Oh no... I'm sorry!" she pleaded as her bedmate rose and began to pull garments out of the free-standing dresser. "I'm so sorry!"

"Renaril – "

"Please don't go!" Renaril scrambled to her feet, throwing her arms around Kang from behind. "I know I wasn't any good last night and now I've done something weird, but I'll make it up to you, I really will!"

_"Renaril,"_ the colonel sighed. "I have to leave for the UN summit, remember?"

There was a pitiable sniffle at her back. "...You aren't angry?"

"Of course I'm not angry." The bigger woman twisted in the smaller's embrace until they faced one another. "Honestly," she assured, planting a light kiss on her junior's forehead, "it's all right."

That pacified the distraught otherworlder, who meekly sat on the bed. "I'm sorry," she mumbled again.

"I know."

Renaril kept quiet for a few seconds, until Kang picked up her bra. "Li, wait..."

"What is it?"

No reply was given. The white-haired female rose again and placed her hands on her partner's waist. "For our parting," she murmured solemnly, then bowed low and pressed her lips against her lover's navel, sending a ripple through the muscles behind it. "For our rejoining," the Arume continued, kissing the skin between Kang's breasts, "and for our immutable bond." She concluded the ritual with a kiss on the amazonian woman's mouth and backed away. "I'll be waiting for you."

The display of sincerity brought back that affectionate feeling. "And I'll come back as soon as I can," Kang promised. "Go back to sleep. I'll call you when I get there."

* * *

_Tokyo-2 (formerly Matsumoto)_

_Nagano Prefecture, Japan_

"Heavy traffic around here."

"It's always like this," Kang remarked. "The capital subway network requires major expansion."

"No kidding." Schuhart downshifted. "You know, I'm starting to miss the Moscow Metro."

Eripol peered around the back of his seat curiously. "Why's that?"

"Never seen the way Muscovites drive? They're second only to Bostonians for sheer ferocity." The arms dealer leaned forward a little, squinting through the rain-streaked windshield. "Is this our exit, Mariko?"

"Yes." Mari took a hand off the sheaf of maps in her lap and locked it around the arched pipe welded to the dashboard, feeling a sideways tug as the vehicle pulled off the expressway.

Schuhart hadn't been joking when he said they would be traveling economically: their flight from the south coast of China over to Japan was made in an ex-Belarusian air force transport with no luxury fittings of any kind. It was already raining hard when the Antonov touched down, dropped its tail ramp and discharged a drab UAZ with chipped paint and a soft roof. The subsequent journey into the heart of the city was old hat to Mari, who couldn't count the number of times she'd ridden shotgun in Soviet jeeps, but Negadael and Eripol spent most of the trip looking downright terrified. Kang, wedged between them in the middle of the rear seat, seemed indifferent.

It had proven a good idea to bring Mari along: Schuhart had a lot of trouble with the kanji he encountered on signs everywhere, and needed her to navigate. His spoken Japanese was passable, though he tended to run his syllables all together and put his stresses in strange places. The difficulties were not lost on him: "At this rate," he'd grumbled on the way out of the airport, "they'll be calling me 'The Man Who Said Everything Twice'!"

Mari sympathized, though she faced the opposite problem: her command of the written language was still useful, but her accent had become so convincingly Finnish that it validated her cover story all by itself. To the world she was Sawakaze Mariko, raised abroad and coming back to her ancestral country after a long absence.

"There's another one." Schuhart pointed to the left as the jeep passed a black Toyota parked on the edge of the street. The sight was complimented – or rather exacerbated – by a blast of tinny patriotic music from the loudspeakers atop the stationary van.

"'Expel the foreign parasites'," Mari recited, translating the slogan painted in white on the van's flank. "Who are the parasites?"

"Resident aliens," the driver explained. "Chinese, Korean, Vietnamese, et cetera." He glanced in the rear-view mirror as the van shrank into the distance. "Ten to one odds those punks have a pile of M-Sixteens in the back."

"Seriously?"

"Wouldn't be the first time."

* * *

_Wow..._

Yanami Shouta had experienced Japan under Arume occupation in a way which the fugitive Mari fortunately evaded. Standing here, in the capital of a free and prosperous Japan, he couldn't shake the profound sense of surreality which clung to him ever since he got off the transport. The closest analogue he could think of was the brief time of hope when the Arume Streets were abolished under Mariel's rule, though even that fell short as a comparison.

Truth be told, he wasn't entirely sure what to think of it. He was nominally part of the entourage representing the Arume home government at the coming sessions of the third layer's United Nations, but that wouldn't begin for at least another couple of hours. The delegation's first stop was the capital convention center, a wide, low building which faced the west side of the sprawling capital gardens. Looking across the gardens, he could see the monolithic UN headquarters on the north side and the edifice of the Diet Hall towering in the east. In the next few days he would visit both, and hopefully come away with the story to jumpstart his budding career.

He owed it all to Razael, and the circumstances still mystified him: the scientist had not only remembered Shouta's awkward attempt to interview her, but even put in a word for him with someone in a high place. He couldn't guess at her motives, except that he was sure the self-righteous Arume wouldn't do it out of remorse or reparation, and he wasn't going to look the gift horse in the mouth at a time like this.

The aspiring journalist shivered. Give it another half-hour or so and he could safely go inside and try to snag some comments from the dignitaries who were meeting in twos and threes within the convention center at his back. Until then, he had to stand here in the meager shelter of the entrance, the weight of an Olympus camera hanging heavy against his front, and watch the rain as it fell in big fat droplets and trickled down the wide granite steps to the street below. Photography was a secondary aspect of his mission, but a contractually stipulated one nonetheless: he needed to capture at least a few interesting shots of the summit's attendees.

A black Citroen pulled up to the steps, the third limousine to arrive since Shouta had taken his position. Out of it came a hulking bodyguard in a suit and wraparound shades, then a pair of men with umbrellas and attache cases, whom the observer took to be aides. Lastly there were a second guard and a man with a lean, hawkish face and white-blond hair. Shouta recognized him from the orientation dossier: Willem Zeldenthuis, prime minister of the Netherlands.

_Chance!_

Shouta snatched up his camera, framing Zeldenthuis in the viewfinder as he started up the steps with his entourage. The shutter released with a soft _gachak_, momentarily darkening the little window through which its operator peered. His thumb snagged the advance lever, cranking an unexposed length of film into position as he adjusted the focus with his other hand. _Gachak!_

At least two shots of everything, that was his rule. The thirty year old OM-1 and a single lens had eaten up most of his savings, and he'd had time to expend only one roll in practice before he shipped out. Shouta snapped a third as the prime minister ascended, hoping at least a few of these pictures would satisfy requirements, and let the camera drop as the limousine drove away. Then it was back to monotony, until the next party showed up.

The next party caught his interest: it arrived in a green four-door military vehicle, with off-road tires and tow hooks fore and aft. From the front passenger side emerged a shortish woman with crew-cut hair. She wore a Russian soldier's khaki uniform of the 'Afghanka' summer pattern, an outfit Shouta well knew: Yoshimura's resistance fighters had often donned the same in order to distinguish themselves from the troops of the puppet government.

The woman seemed to care nothing for the rain as she walked around the back of the jeep and opened the rear door on the curb side. Out staggered a small Arume in standard uniform, looking rather weak-kneed but plainly grateful to be leaving the machine's confines. Behind her came a woman with a grim face and a Mao suit several shades darker than the jeep's paint, and then a second alien. Shouta zoomed in a little and photographed the group as the one in Russian clothes slammed the door and smacked her palm twice against the driver's window, whereupon the jeep pulled out and roared off up the street.

The Olympus clicked again, capturing the four as they began their ascent. The Chinese woman took the lead, with the maybe-Russian following at her elbow. Shouta was startled to see the Arume walking behind them, in an obviously subordinate manner. He pulled the advance lever, took a moment to fix his glasses, and lined up one more shot as the leader drew a mobile phone from one of her tunic pockets.

The Japanese reporter was additionally surprised to hear her speaking English: "Hello... Yes, thank you... Hello, Renaril. We've just arrived, everything is fine. We're going to try and find Keldanil... Yes, I'll tell her that... No, not yet. I'll call you if it does... Yes, you too. Talk to you later."

"All's well?" the other one asked. Now that he heard her voice, Shouta was inclined to believe she wasn't Russian after all.

"All's well," the Chinese female confirmed. She started to say something else, but it was lost as the visitors entered the convention center.

Left alone, Shouta rummaged in his own pockets for the printed list of notables expected to take part on the Arume side. _So that was Kang Li,_ he told himself, looking at the grainy image near the foot of the page. _But why isn't the Sino-Arumic Liaison's Arume leader here?_

A screech of tires and a splintering crash from the right tore his attention away from the paper. The bewildered journalist looked up in time to see a large two-axle truck come barreling down the street, a piece of the barrier from the police checkpoint hanging from its grille. The driver slammed on the brakes as he came abreast of the convention center and the truck slewed to a halt, blocking the northbound street. Two more trucks of the same configuration came after it, making equally dramatic stops.

As Shouta stood open-mouthed, hordes of masked soldiers began to pour out.


	31. Force Ten from Panmunjom

_Part 28: Force Ten from Panmunjom_

The camera clicked, though Shouta was not consciously aware of depressing the shutter release. Probably it was the convulsion of his fingers, reacting to the thunder in his ears, which caused it. A movement at the edge of his vision pulled his eyes to the left, as one of the convention center's police guards went tumbling _bump-bump-bump_ down the steps.

"Get inside!"

Suddenly he was yanked back, spun around and propelled headlong through the open door into the center. Anemic pistol shots sounded behind him as the second officer made a valiant last stand. The reporter stumbled, fumbling to get his glasses back into place. The chevron-shaped reception desk in front of him was already deserted, and the heavy doors at the end of the hall behind it, which had stood invitingly open when he ducked inside to use the restroom an hour ago, were now closed.

Kang Li and her followers were coming from that direction. "They've barred it," she barked, cutting towards Shouta's right. "Over here!" The soldier barreled into the men's room, her aide in the Afghanka and the two rather revolted Arume close behind.

There being no obvious alternative, Shouta ran after them. _Yoshimura-senpai, what do I do now?_

* * *

_Are they after me?_

Mari possessed no proof of it, but she would rule out nothing after the near-miss in Rovaniemi. If the Arume identified her, she thought, it would not be beyond them to arrange a grand show for the camouflaging of her eradication. Yui had assured her that the aliens would hesitate to attack while she was under the aegis of the man with the single eye and the unpredictable temper, but was it true?

She put the question aside as she chased after Kang, weaving through the S-bend partition which separated the restroom from the hall. Though she loathed to put herself in a dead end, she understood the colonel's thinking: if one's opponents had the range advantage, one's best chances were in nullifying that advantage. When Kang spun out of line and flattened herself against the wall on the right side of the restroom entrance, Mari took the opposite place. Negadael and Eripol wore identical expressions of distress as they ran down the line of toilet stalls and hid themselves at the far end. The effeminate man with the camera and the large glasses copied them, sans the grimace. Those three weren't likely to be much use, but at least they were quick enough to get out of the way.

_All right,_ the hunter told herself, breathing deeply. _Now we find out if Sambo actually works._

* * *

_Koreans?_

The gunfire outside ended, and a storm of footfalls and curt shouts took its place. Kang listened intently, to little avail: she had picked up bits of the language during a brief posting in Yanbian, but that was civilian street talk, not military jargon. Even if she were correct, it didn't make sense – Korea might be formally hostile towards the Arume and their clients, but would that peninsular nation go so far as to launch a surprise attack on the soil of its own ally, and in full view of the UN itself?

She would find out soon enough: it sounded like a sweep of the restrooms was imminent. The colonel braced herself and wound up to strike the first blow. Sawakaze ducked, cocking an arm to take second place. _Good,_ Kang thought. _She knows how this works._ The footsteps grew louder, and her pulse with them. _Any moment now..._

* * *

"HUNGH!" _Thwack!_

Shouta covered his head at the noise of the blow. There was a scuffle, a burst of gunfire, then another burst. As the man debated whether to steal a peek around the corner of the stall which concealed him, he heard a longer burst and then a harsh silence.

_What's going on? Are they coming for us next?_

"Eripol, Negadael, are you all right?"

"We're fine, Colonel."

"What about that man?"

The stall door swung open, Shouta having forgotten to lock it. "He's fine too," the Arume on the other side reported. "Is it safe?"

"Not very." There was a muffled thump, as of some object being set down. "Stay in the rear and keep quiet."

Curiosity began to override Shouta's fear, and he climbed down from his perch on the ceramic throne. Leaving the stall, he saw Kang dragging a dead soldier into the corner opposite the sinks, leaving a long streak of blood on the brown tiled floor. A second corpse lay there already, and the Chinese woman had appropriated one apiece of the attackers' helmets and automatic rifles, as well as a pair of bulbous hand grenades. She cast a glance towards Shouta and the two aliens, then disappeared into the entryway, her expression unreadable.

* * *

"Well?"

"Maybe ten more in the lobby," the Japanese female muttered. "Didn't get a good look."

Ten. Two dead in the men's room, plus two more whom Mariko had mowed down in the entrance of the women's room across the hall, and there were still so many left. With these odds, a few grenades were all it would take to flush out the defenders and finish the invasion.

_Let's hope they don't know that._

Kang edged closer to the opening, her back against the wall and her weapon gripped tightly. As her ears recovered from the jarring effects of muzzle blast in a confined space, the officer could hear a murmur of voices: enemies communicating by radio. She waited a few seconds, then pulled out her phone. If it were able to access the local cellular network, she could call in some backup of her own. Her thumb was on the second digit when the handset began to vibrate, the little screen filling with a well-known string of characters. "...Schuhart?"

_"Colonel, look out – there's twenty Norks coming in through the back."_

"We met some at the front," Kang muttered tersely. "Where are you?"

_"In the parking garage behind the convention center. They didn't make a thorough sweep. What about you?"_

"In the women's toilets beside the lobby. We captured two AKMs and some grenades, but our ammunition won't last long. You need to get away and warn the authorities that KPA remnants – "

_"Like hell. I'm not leaving you and Mariko in there."_

"There's no alternative," Kang hissed. "You don't have a – " She broke off as a sharp _click_ came out of the phone. "...You do?"

_"A Six-P-Nine, a muffler and four mags. I'm moving as soon as I get it assembled."_ There was another click and a scrape of metal on metal. _"Should be enough to swipe something bigger, maybe keep these assholes busy for a bit."_

"I can't stop you," the short-haired woman sighed, "can I?"

_"No, but I'll be good and call for help before I go in. Can I send someone over to Liaison HQ for co-ops?"_

"You can. I'll try to get through and let them know... And Schuhart, please don't do anything stupid."

_"I know, I know. Stay alive, y'all."_

"He's incorrigible," the exasperated veteran declared. She started to redial the original number, only to falter as an unfamiliar feeling began to well up in the basin of her pelvis. It started as a point and spread in a matter of seconds, until she felt as though her whole womb was being bathed in warm oil. The soldier's eyes widened. _It's happening right now?_

"Incoming." The brusque announcement was Mariko's only warning before she swung the Kalashnikov around the corner. _Pokh! Pokh-pokh-pokh! Pokh-pokh!_ "...Wounded one," she concluded, withdrawing as return fire blasted tile shards and chips of grout off the wall on the other side of the entry. "Colonel? Colonel, are you hit?"

Kang, caught between the changes within her body and the suddenness of the repulsed attack, could only shake her head.

"Cramps?" Mariko pressed.

"No... No, it's nothing." The mother to be straightened, plastering a mask of composure over her troubled face. On the third try, the call went through.

* * *

_War Room_

_SAL HQ, Guangzhou_

"...They're being attacked by a country which doesn't exist?"

"In a manner of speaking." Daemon clicked a button on the wireless remote in his hand, bringing up a map of the Korean peninsula on the broad screen in front of Renaril's chair. "The Democratic People's Republic of Korea – which, I should remind you, was neither democratic nor for the people – effectively ceased to function six years ago, when its leader died of complications from a stroke. While his sons and generals fought indecisively for control, the forces of the Republic of Korea crossed the demilitarized zone and occupied the north."

This was all very abstract for Renaril, and being sick with guilt and worry didn't help a whit. _If I hadn't been in the shower so long,_ she lamented to herself, _I would have been there when she called!_

"Most of the population has grudgingly accepted reunification," the black man continued, indifferent to his audience's anxiety. "However a large portion of the Korean People's Army and Worker-Peasant Red Guard fled across the border into China, taking significant technical and cultural assets of the country with them. It would appear that during the intervening years these exiles have thoroughly infiltrated enemy territory. Since their attacks are primarily directed against the governmental institutes of Seoul and Tokyo-Two, it is probable that retaliation is a factor."

"Then why are they also attacking Shanghai?" the Arume asked. "Korea and Japan I understand, but why their own ally? What did China do?"

"Nothing," Daemon replied, "and that might be the precise cause. North Korea was a small, isolated and impoverished nation, and after Second Impact its defense strategy became dependent on the assumption that China would intervene in the event of a South Korean attack." He paused to brush away a speck of something on his spectacles. "When the attack came, intervention was neither politically nor economically feasible. Beijing did nothing."

"They believe China betrayed them?"

"So it would seem."

"But China was their ally for a long time, wasn't it?" Renaril tried to put a hopeful spin on the facts. "If they capture the colonel, wouldn't they spare her?"

"Unlikely," the Anglo-African opined. "Kang Li despises the Juche ideology. They know she is no friend of theirs... That they have not attacked the Liaison may be purely a problem of opportunity."

_Fuck._ Renaril slumped, elbows on knees. _Why is this happening? Why?_

* * *

_Twenty-three minutes._

The tension was eating away at Shouta's composure like battery acid on steel. There had been three more attacks, twice with rifles and once with grenades. Kang and Mariko repelled each as it came, but it was clear to all parties that they couldn't hold the line indefinitely. _And then?_ the journalist thought morosely. _Then it will all be over._

He wondered where Razael was now. Lying in a pool of sickly white, as likely as anything – the fleeing receptionists hadn't saved themselves by blocking the doors. They were probably dead as well, shot in cold blood by the soldiers coming from the rear.

_"Stop fooling around. I hate it when people do that."_

Shouta smiled to himself weakly: if she were here, she'd be saying exactly that. Razael's attitude was one thing about her which hadn't much changed since the days when she made his life a living hell. She would be right, too: it did no good to sit around and stare at himself in the mirror. Finding motivation in this, he stood up, brushed off his trousers and went to see what was going on.

Negadael and Eripol were crouched behind Kang and Mariko, though to Shouta it looked as if they offered no real help. "Ano..." _Oops._ "Excuse me..."

Mariko spoke without looking at him. "Problem?"

"No," the man whispered hurriedly. "What is happening?"

"The enemy is agitated, yet holding back. That's all."

"Is there any news from outside?"

"None."

Kang checked her wristwatch. "We're due for a check-in," she announced, taking up her cellphone. Under the cool light of its little display, Shouta saw sudden dismay on the military woman's face. "'Service not available'..? _Ni ge gou pi!"_

* * *

"...They _will_ be dead if you don't get a bloody move on!" A mighty crash resounded throughout the war room as Daemon slammed the telephone handset back into its cradle. "Bureaucrats," he muttered furiously. "Don't know who's in command, won't take the initiative on their own."

That could have been directed at Renaril herself, not just the Japanese, but she opted not to acknowledge it. "The Diet... It's true?"

Daemon nodded. "A slaughterhouse." He fiddled with the remote, placing an archival satellite photograph of the capital square on the big screen. "There's one piece of good news, at least: security troops at the UN tower have prevented the North Koreans from breaking out of the ground floor. Hopefully they will be able to hold out until relieved."

Renaril was still trying to understand where it had all gone wrong. An hour ago she was as happy as she could ever remember being, with a position that was finally accruing respect, a beautiful woman to share her nights with, and the promise of a family on the horizon. Now she stood to lose two of her three prizes, and the third would not endure without the others. Pulling her attention away from the photo, she looked down at the papers scattered on the table. At her elbow was the hot item: a transcript of the Korean exiles' declaration of war, delivered by phone to an Osaka TV studio sixteen minutes ago. To her eyes it was full of garbage, an insane rant about restoring the glory of their 'eternal' leader and his twisted doctrines, but it gave her an insight into Kang's hatred of the Kim regime, those feelings of which the alien's lover had been so reticent in person.

_Oh, Li... What can I do?_

The answer – she wasn't sure why she imagined it in Daemon's voice – was 'not bloody much'. Even if she ordered the bombers and the paratroopers to take off, and even if they were ready to leave immediately, they wouldn't get to Japan in time to make a difference. The political consequences of that course would be substantial, to say the least.

There was a verbal report from one of the Arume operators stationed at the head of the room, but Renaril didn't register it clearly. Since Daemon didn't prompt her, she assumed it was trivial and went back to staring at the papers. It was probably for the best that Schuhart had loaned her the man: the group commander was painfully aware that she would have been hard pressed to keep up with the crisis on her own. Her promise to Kang that she would try harder was sincere, of course it was, but this trouble came much too soon for the white-haired one to make good on her words.

_"How can you hope to get what you want if you're too timid even to ask for it?"_

Was it only two nights since she declared her intent towards the woman on whom she was so fixated? Would the dream die so young?

The Eto Delo operator who had accompanied Daemon suddenly perked up behind his laptop. "Tovarishch Praporshchik!" he cried. "We have communication from Tovarishch Politruk!"

"About time," the Briton replied. "Put it on speaker mode."

"Done."

Daemon cleared his throat. "Daemon here."

_"Is that everyone? Great."_ There was a frayed quality in Schuhart's voice that Renaril hadn't heard since the battle in Hong Kong. _"Bad news first – I can't get through to the colonel any more. I don't know if she switched off her phone or there's a problem with the cell net."_

"We were waiting to hear from her," Daemon volunteered, "but that may have been a poor judgment. Nereus?"

_"The Tokyo-Two civilian network went offline,"_ the Eto Delo chief engineer reported. _"We have an unconfirmed report of sabotage."_

_"Figures,"_ the arms dealer chuckled humorlessly. _"Good thing I stuck with satellites."_

Renaril wasn't in the mood for this. "What's the good news?" she demanded.

_"I'm in, and it's not as bad as I thought. I found a couple of dead cops and a couple of dead secretary-types, but the delegates and the other guards have barricaded themselves in the conference rooms. Looks like the Norks ignored them."_

Daemon frowned. "They ignored the delegates?"

_"So far, yeah. Heard anything from the sky eyes in there?"_

"We had brief contact with three Arume. They intend to stay put until rescue arrives."

_"Smart choice... Anyway, the baddies left a four-man MG nest at the back door and the rest went upstairs to the second-floor terrace. I think they're setting up overwatch for the other assault teams."_

"Where does that leave you?"

_"I took out the nest already – didn't guard their flanks too well. That got me... Just a sec... That got me two AKs, an RPD with three cans, an SKS with a cutoff and spigot, a funny Tokarev and four F-Ones. Stuff's all DPRK-built... Oh, and two five-shot New Nambus from the dead cops. I found some papers on one of the targets, but I can't read 'em."_

"It's enough," Daemon stated. "What's your assessment?"

_"Well... If we can act fast, I think we could sneak all the delegates out through the back."_

"You would need additional transportation."

_"Nah – the Norks kindly left me a pristine GAZ Sixty-Six with the tanks three-quarters full... We'll need somebody to keep the jerks on the terrace occupied, but Nereus tells me the local backup is taking its sweet time getting here."_

"That does seem to be the major problem."

_"Tell me about it. I gather things are worse across the gardens."_

Renaril didn't give a damn what was happening across the gardens. "Can't _you_ deal with the enemies on the roof?"

_"Sorry, but no. Four-on-one I could handle, but sixteen-plus is too much... I reckon the best thing, now that I've taken this chance to pilfer a goat, is to save Zhao by attacking Wei with a borrowed knife."_

"...Huh?"

_"I thought Kang was teaching you the classics."_ Schuhart sounded disproportionately annoyed. _"It means I'm going to fight the enemy with their own gear and bail out your beloved colonel, dammit."_

The group commander's heart leaped. "You really mean that?"

"Schuhart – "

_"It's okay, Daemon, I've got an idea... I'll call you again when I get there."_

Daemon looked neither assured nor mollified, but whatever complaint he wanted to file was blocked when Renaril slapped her palms down on the tabletop. "Mister Daemon," she said sternly, "please inform the bureaucrats that if an appreciable response is not made in the next ten minutes, we will disregard all concerns of jurisdiction and act independently."

"Are you sure, Group Commander? Committing Liaison forces would – "

"I'm not going to use forime troops," Renaril interrupted. It was as if a switch had been tripped, converting the alien's despair into purposeful energy. "Tell them that if they won't act, we Arume will."

Daemon shrugged and went to carry out her bidding. The operators just kept their heads down and prayed that this swing towards a resolute mood would carry their leader through to the end of the crisis.

* * *

"It's been forty minutes. How many rounds have you got left?"

Mariko hefted her rifle, then checked the one magazine left in her pouch. "...Maybe fifty. You?"

"The same." Kang tensed, listening for clues to the enemy's next move as the voices outside rose angrily. "More of them..!"

Shouta shrank into a defensive huddle. _Oh no..._

He wasn't alone in his evaluation. "Colonel?" Eripol whispered. "Whatever happens, I'm glad I was able to serve with you."

"I appreciate the sentiment." _Snik-chak!_ "Get back."

Shouta held his breath. _Kenzou-kun, Ma-chan, Kotoko... Razael... goodbye!_

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

Mariko relaxed slightly. "...Second thoughts?"

"FIRE! IN! THE HOLE!"

Shouta heard a muffled pop, a whizz and then a loud bang. The disturbance brought a sudden end to the Joseon hubbub, but in its place there was a man incongruously singing: _"Steh auuuuuf, steh auf du Riesen-land... Herauuuuus zur grossen Schlacht!"_

"Finally," Kang muttered.

_"Den Naaaaazihorden wieder-stand... Tod deeeer Faschisten-macht..."_

The reporter's curiosity again started to subsume his wariness. He scooted forwards to get a better vantage point, bits of tile crunching underfoot, even as a crash of rifle fire blotted out the next stanza. What strange tactic was this?

_"...Es bre-che uber sie der Zorn... Die fiiiiinst're Flut hereeeeein..."_ Now there was even more shooting, but the man only sang louder. _"Das soooooll der Krieg des Volkes... Der Kriiiiieg der Menschheit sein!"_

Mariko made a lemon-sucker face. "What the..?"

_"Den Wuuuuur-gern bieten wir die Stirn... Den Mooooordern der Ideen..."_

Somehow the bizarre interlude made sense to Shouta: the singing drew the enemy's fire away from the trapped man and women, and told him and the others where their ally was. It also confirmed that the aggressors' projectiles weren't hitting their mark.

_"Die Peiniger und Plunderer..."_

And then he saw it: a wide service trolley, slowly rolling broadside-on towards the lobby. It wore a crude armor skirt of metal trays affixed with duct tape, and the inside and top shelves were piled high with garishly labeled sacks of dry plaster. There was a machine gun resting behind the uppermost pile, its barrel pointing at the far wall.

_"...Sie mussen untergehen!"_

Behind the trolley crouched a large man, blond-haired and round-shouldered. He had a carbine of some sort slung across his back and pineapple-shaped grenades hanging from the front of his brown vest. As Shouta looked on, he stopped pushing and dug in his heels, bringing his shield to a halt. When he looked towards them, Shouta further saw that he had only one eye. "Sound off, Colonel!"

"We're all right!" Kang shouted back. "Do you have ammunition?"

"Brought everything I've got." The man pulled out a large bundle from the bottom shelf, wrapped in what looked like a curtain and tied with a thin rope. "Here!"

He flung the long tail of the rope towards Kang and Mariko, then sprang up and seized the machine gun. Mariko hauled in the bundle as the man raked the lobby with a long stream of bullets. Shouta moved out of her way, a bump against his chest reminding him of his dusty but miraculously intact camera. _Might as well finish this roll,_ he thought gamely, and started snapping pictures as the package was opened. Inside it were two extra assault rifles, magazines with stamped ribs and banana-like curves, and more hand grenades.

"This is good," Mariko called, passing a magazine pouch to Kang as the trolley man ceased fire, "but we could use more!"

"Working on it." The man ducked, gripped the corner struts of the hoplite handcart and dragged it sluggishly sidewards until it was up against the wall beside the women's restroom. He took a few seconds to divest some bags and pouches of his own, tossed them onto the trolley's vacated shelf and scooted over to the dead soldiers in the doorway.

At that moment Shouta came to the end of his roll. _Crap!_ he cursed silently, frantically spinning the film winder. _I'll miss something important!_

"The reception desk is trashed," the big man casually remarked as he looted the corpses. "Was that you guys?"

"Mostly." Kang took a grenade from the delivery bundle, yanked the pin and hurled it towards the front doors. "Frag out!"

The blast rattled Shouta's ears as he popped the back of the Olympus open and dumped out the used film. Dropping it into his breast pocket, he hastily dug up a fresh canister and pried the lid off with his thumb. _Come on, come on!_

The colonel followed up on the little bomb with a rapid volley. "Schuhart," she grunted, taking cover. "I told you not to do anything stupid!"

"Stupid?" The rescuer threw an unloaded weapon onto his trolley. "What was stupid?"

Looking up from the camera, Shouta saw Kang grit her teeth. "Rifle grenades are _not_ for indoor use!"

"It worked, didn't it? ...Anyway," the self-styled bombardier added petulantly, stuffing a liberated magazine into a liberated pouch, "I _like_ them." He straightened, holding a pouch in each hand. "More ammo for you... _Hup!"_

Mariko caught the first pack as it sailed across the hall, snatching up the second when it landed. "Take these," she ordered, handing them to the Arume in the back. "Schuhart, what about yourself?"

That person was already unlimbering his carbine. "I'm good."

_So am I._ Shouta captured a hasty photo as the American – he was pretty sure about the accent, at least – fired diagonally across the plaster bags.

"I think that was the last one." Trolley-man ducked, whipping out a set of cartridges on a metal clip.

"There will be more," Mariko warned.

"I know." The empty clip fell with a high _ting-g-g!_ "Intel says there's Norks all over the gardens. We'd better pull back."

"Agreed," said Kang. "Are you ready?"

"Just a sec." The latecomer re-slung his carbine and picked up the machine gun. Dropping its underslung ammunition can with a loud _clunk_, he grabbed another from the trolley. "...Okay, done. Let's go!"

Kang and Mariko eased out of their cover, keeping their muzzles aimed towards the entrance of the center. "Spread out," the latter instructed Shouta and the Arume. "Don't bunch together."

Shouta obeyed, still photographing the scene as many times as possible. Negadael and Eripol armed themselves with the spare rifles, their movements clumsy and unpracticed, and placed themselves between the Terran women. The other man, Schuhart, pulled the armored trolley away from the wall and turned it around. "Keep an eye on the front," he cautioned, pushing it back towards the doors at hall's end. "There are still Norks on the roof."

The Chinese woman walked backwards, glancing behind herself every few seconds. "How many?"

"Sixteen, seventeen, maybe a few more."

Mariko shot him an incredulous look. "You just _left_ them?"

"It was them or you," Schuhart snapped. As the trolley passed the troublesome doors, he let go of it and went to swing the left half shut. Eripol closed the other leaf, and Schuhart secured the portal by sliding the shaft of a heavy-looking brass light fixture through the double handles. "That'll slow 'em down for a few minutes," said he. "You there, with the glasses – your name is..?"

"Ya-Yanami..."

"Yakkun. Come over here and push this, would you?"

The offworlder balked at both the nickname and the assignment, but did as he was asked. The trolley was very heavy, even when the one-eyed man removed the machine gun from its load, but the wheels were well-oiled and Shouta's burden lessened once he overcame the starting inertia. Schuhart meanwhile joined the others in checking every corner, alcove and junction for lurking enemies. Thankfully there were none.

"It's quiet," Negadael ventured after a minute.

"Yeah." Schuhart conjured up his phone. "Hey, pretty good signal here." He dialed and put the handset to his ear. "It's me... First mission accomplished. I linked up with the others and we're withdrawing through the convention center. How's that fire support coming along? ...As soon as you can, please. Group Commander, are you there?"

* * *

_Please have good news!_

"I'm here," the alien affirmed, "I'm right here."

_"Good. Stand by for the colonel."_

_"...Renaril?"_

Blissful relief washed over the slender female. "You're not hurt?"

_"No, I'm all right... Renaril, I – I felt it."_

Despite all the excitement, she hadn't for one moment forgotten. "Really? You're sure?"

_"Definitely."_

There was so much Renaril had intended to say when this moment came, but somehow it no longer seemed important. "I'm glad," she said softly. "Take care, Li."


	32. Roadkill on the Straight and Narrow

(I've had some requests for a character reference list. I'll see what I can do about it after the next update.)

_Part 29: Roadkill on the Straight and Narrow_

_Employee Canteen_

_Eto Delo HQ, Hong Kong_

_April 27th, 2016_

"Gimme another."

Phil Darwin frowned. "I'm not sure that's a good idea."

"Please," Renaril begged, feeling tears threatening to spill down her cheeks anew. "I want to forget..."

"Let 'er 'ave it," Errol advised. "I'll take the 'eat."

"Yah can't take the 'angover," his twin muttered, but he poured from the Avtomat bottle anyway.

Renaril watched the clear liquid rising in her glass, then tossed it back and swallowed the lot as fast as she could. The vodka burned in her throat, far stronger than anything she would willingly drink for pleasure, but right now pleasure was the absolute _last_ thing on her mind.

Even Errol looked taken aback as she slammed the empty glass down on the counter top. "Oi, steady on, mate. Yer gonna be more 'n 'arf-charged wi' that stuff."

"More."

This time Phil slid the bottle out of reach. "Why don't yah tell us wot's the matter?"

"I don't want to talk about it." The Arume buried her face in her forearms. "I don't want to remember."

"Tell us," the other Australian at her elbow insisted. "Won't solver yer problems just by gettin' stonkered."

"It's not fair," Renaril sniffed, looking at the bottle longingly. "I just wanted to hold her..."

_"Ahem."_

The Darwin brothers both jerked upright. Renaril looked behind herself sluggishly and saw Roland Schuhart coming in out of the darkness with a raised eyebrow. She hated that, hated the way it highlighted the missing eye below. _Great,_ the alien thought despondently, turning away. _He knows all about it... He always takes her side, and now he'll throw me out and send me back there._

Whether or not these assumptions were correct quickly became irrelevant: Phil ducked behind the canteen counter and resurfaced wearing a flat hat with a line of little corks hanging from strings affixed to the brim. He carried two more, which he tossed to Errol and Schuhart. "G'day, Bruce!"

Schuhart caught the flying hat and put it on. "Hello, Bruce."

Errol waved from the other side of Renaril. "Hi, Bruce!"

Schuhart sat down next to the miserable group commander. "Where's Bruce?"

Phil shrugged. "Not 'ere, Bruce."

The arms dealer made an exaggerated show of tugging at his collar. "Hot out tonight, Bruce."

Errol nodded. "Hot enough to roast an eel's gonads, Bruce."

"That's a strange expression, Bruce," said Phil.

"Well, Bruce, I heard the Hainan party secretary use it."

Phil nodded at that. "She's a bit stuck-up, Bruce, but crackin' useful."

Schuhart, meanwhile, was looking at Renaril. "Is this a new Bruce?"

"Yeah, a lady Bruce."

"Well, then!" The cyclops slapped a palm down on the counter. "I expect every man Bruce of you to welcome her to our Brucerhood properly!"

"Roight." Phil stood up. "New Bruce, this is Bruce, New Bruce, _this_ is Bruce, New Bruce, this is _Bruce."_

"New Bruce," said Schuhart keenly, "are you _moping?"_

Renaril shrank back a little. "N-no..!"

"Very good... Now, Bruces, I'll just remind you of the Brucerhood rules." Schuhart pretended to read from an invisible paper. "Rule one: no moping. Rule two: any Bruce experiencing a hangfire is not allowed to pull out before thirty seconds have elapsed. Rule three: no moping. Rule four: I don't want to catch anyone _not_ frog blasting the vent core after lights-out. Rule five: no moping. Rule six: this space intentionally left blank. Rule seven: is darker." He pretended to put away the paper. "Over to you, Bruce."

Errol jumped off his stool and picked up his rifle. "This 'ere's the Smelly, defender of our land! Yah can shoot it at a Jerry or yah can pet it wi' yer 'and! _Amen!"_

"Thank you, Bruce... Now I see New Bruce has already found her poison, and I could do with a little poison myself. Bruce?"

"Straight away, Bruce." Phil produced a fresh glass and poured a measure of Avtomat into it.

Schuhart took the glass and flung its contents backward over his shoulder. "Much obliged," he said as the vodka splashed on the cement floor by the doorway. "Next on the Brucerhood itinerary..."

Renaril suddenly giggled.

* * *

_Capital Stadium_

_Tokyo-2, Japan_

_Nine hours earlier_

"You're leaving?"

"Yeah." Schuhart nodded, oblivious to the rain pouring down on him. "If you need anything, the sky eyes know where to reach me."

Shouta wasn't sure what he was expected to need, but it seemed imprudent to say so. "Thank you."

"No problem." The arms dealer turned around and started his long march back to the truck parked at the stadium entrance. "See you 'round, Yakkun."

Shouta watched as the big man weaved through the other survivors, aid workers and scattered police. A compact helicopter buzzed overhead, distracting him momentarily. When he looked again, Schuhart was lost among the crowd.

_Well,_ the reporter from afar thought philosophically, _back to work, I guess._

Razael was somewhere around here, helping with triage. She wouldn't want to be bothered. Colonel Kang and her aides had taken off in the company of Master Commander Keldanil. Most of the other Arume from the convention center had already left as well, ditto the alien ship which provided supporting fire during their pulse-pounding escape. That left Shouta, some politicians whom he probably wouldn't be let near, and a smattering of civilian evacuees. As he looked about, squinting through his misty glasses, he saw a boy sitting alone under an awning at the foot of the stadium seats. _I'll try him_, Shouta decided, and walked that way.

The boy lifted his face as Shouta approached. He was effeminate looking, brown-haired and blue-eyed, and wore the white shirt and black pants of a school's summer uniform. A compact Casio camera lay on the bench beside him. "Are you – oh..." The boy spotted Shouta's name tag. "You're from the other Earth."

"Er, yes." Shouta cleared his throat. "I was in the convention center."

The boy looked down at his sodden shoes. "I – we were in the Diet Hall."

"I heard the casualties were... worse over there. Is it true?"

"The soldiers killed almost everyone. They came in with machine guns and..." The boy – Shouta really needed to get his name, even if it wasn't going to appear in print – waved his hand from side to side, suggesting a prodigious volume of fire. "We were watching from a balcony, so we got out before they caught us." He picked up his camera. "They're still fighting. I tried to take some pictures, but I don't know if they're any good."

Shouta was still wondering the same about his own attempts. "Can you tell me any more, um..?"

"Ikari Shinji." He looked past Shouta momentarily, seeking out somebody in the sea of tents and umbrellas. "I guess it's all right to talk."

* * *

_Took you long enough,_ Mari thought, watching through the water-streaked windshield of the captured GAZ as Schuhart finally appeared outside. He was plainly in no hurry to get out of the wet... _No,_ Mari amended, _he's looking for someone._

A man in a blue short-sleeve shirt passed the parked truck, heading the other way: Mari glimpsed a straggly brown ponytail under the lip of the stranger's umbrella. Neither he nor Schuhart acknowledged one another as they passed, but the hunter saw a small bundle change hands. The stranger walked on without a second glance.

"Sorry about that," the dealer grunted as he climbed into the driver's seat. "Had some errands to run."

"Humph." Mari stole a peek at the mystery package, a flat rectangle wrapped in a gray plastic bag. "Where now?"

"Back to the airport, I think." Schuhart started the engine, let it run for a few seconds, then put the vehicle into reverse gear. "Maybe we can beg a ride with Keldanil once she's done with the colonel."

"Mm." _Beg a ride, or spend six hours waiting for the company plane to come back from Siberia._ If this Keldanil was as nice as Mari had heard – nice, of course, being a relative term when it came to Arume – then she'd rather not wait. She expected the man beside her had similar feelings – he wouldn't want to hang around either, in case the authorities figured out that he _hadn't_ taken that silenced handgun off the enemy. "What was that package?" she asked as the GAZ weaved through a police checkpoint.

"Oh, yeah." Schuhart handed it to her, then cranked the wheel hard over and pulled out onto a wider street. "Present for you."

"For me?" Inside the bag was a layer of thick brown paper. Peeling it away left Mari holding a book with a cover of embossed green stock. _Maiden of Orleans_, read the title printed in black ink above a graphic of a rose blossom. "This is... this is – !"

Her companion downshifted. "Something important, huh?"

_You can't understand._ Mari turned the pages with reverence, memories of distant happiness rising as she read each one. "I thought I would never see it again," she confessed. "That man... who was he?"

"His name is Kaji." The truck's massive tires threw up sheets of filthy water as it rumbled over a broad puddle. "He works at Nerv, formerly moonlighting as an informant for the Ministry of Home Affairs." Schuhart overshot the next turn and crossed the dividing line before he brought the GAZ back on course. "He's Majestic Nine."

"What?"

Mari's employer carried on as if he hadn't heard, though his expression turned sour. "I wouldn't trust him too far if I were you."

"Oh..." Mari looked at the weathered relic, then at Schuhart, then at the script again. "Do you know anyone else in Majestic?"

"A few." Schuhart checked the side mirror. "MJ-One is a man with a pipe. No other details on him... MJ-Three is a sky eyes who calls herself Misato. She hangs out with MJ-Two most of the time... No info on numbers four and five – they may not even exist. MJ-Six is a ship commander in the Arume navy: she runs their special ops squad... MJ-Seven is Majestic's agent inside Eto Delo, whoever that might be... Eight and ten are more unknowns." He made a comparatively delicate turn onto the next exit ramp. "MJ-Eleven and MJ-Twelve are with the second layer occupation authorities. They helped MJ-Two get you out of Finland."

"Yoshimura isn't one of them?"

"No."

"I see... Then, what about you?" the expatriate queried. "How do you fit into this?"

"Me?" The truck lurched as its driver steered it straight over a gaping chuckhole. "I'm just a guy they find useful." One of the windshield wipers started to make a dull squeaking noise. Schuhart switched them off, then on again. "It's forty minutes to the airport, we've got half a tank of gas, half a pack of mints, it's pissing, and I forgot my sunglasses."

Mari carefully tucked _Maiden of Orleans_ back into its paper wrapping. The sooner she could get it back to the safety of her room, the better. "Hit it."

* * *

"How is it? Does it fit all right?"

"Yes." The fit was near enough, but Kang felt an irrational urge to wrap her arms around herself despite the warmth of the shuttle's cabin. "I'm sorry, I'm not accustomed to wearing something so... _light."_

"I can tell," Keldanil replied with good humor. "You have a healthy figure, Colonel. I could not see it at all under that thing you were wearing before, the – what was it called?"

"Zhongshan suit." It was true that she couldn't really keep wearing that article after it had been soaked by rain and drenched in enemy blood, but the snug-fitting jeans and white pullover drew too much attention to her hips and breasts. Just as well that she wouldn't need to appear in public before she had a chance to change back into work clothes. "Thank you for lending these," she said, trying to put a positive spin on the matter.

"Keep them," said the Arume. "It is not bad to dress casual once in a while... And it is not bad to show some sex appeal, especially when dealing with my race."

Her reluctance to flaunt herself was one aspect of the Chinese woman's far-flung reputation which needed no embellishment, at least until the problem of the paintings arose. "It... feels dishonest."

Her hesitance earned a knowing chuckle. "Renaril will definitely like it."

Keldanil was a far cry from the other command-rank officers Kang had so far met among the aliens. She was of the rarer breed: tall and slim, with faintly green eyes and hair that would probably be blond if it did not lack pigment. It was cut short all around, except for a narrow length over each temple which was fastened with a floral barrette. She was also easy to like, exuding a warm and understanding aura, speaking softly – albeit formally – and smiling easily.

"I'm sure she will," the colonel agreed.

Keldanil nodded. "If it is not impertinent, may I congratulate you on the coming child?"

The soldier tensed. _Did Renaril tell her already? Or was it someone else?_

The master commander raised her hands. "Please don't be alarmed. I knew by your walk."

"My walk..?"

"I know that feeling, tenderness after heat." Keldanil lowered her trim frame onto one of the seats which ran the full length of the cabin's sides, beckoning for her guest to join her. "You conceived during the fighting, am I correct?"

"Yes." The cushion and backrest pulsed as Kang sat down, molding themselves to fit her contours. "Master Commander, I would prefer that my... relationship with Renaril be kept private for now."

"As you wish." Keldanil's gaze wandered up and down the Terran female with concern. "You seem distressed... Do you feel ill? Nauseous?"

Kang couldn't tell for sure, not after the way the Arume had startled her. "I feel as if I'm not myself," she hedged.

"That is normal." Keldanil clasped her hands. "Forgive me, but it appears that you do not understand what is happening."

Too true. "Renaril only told me to expect the warmth."

"That is all?" The alien shook her head. "Perhaps she was afraid to upset you... I am not sure how to explain this delicately."

_It gets worse?_ "Just tell me, please."

"Very well." The visitor from a distant world rose and stood with her hands behind her back, as if delivering a lecture. "When Renaril inseminated you, her nanomachines colonized your uterine walls. These became active when conception occurred, which is the source of the heat. Right now they are optimizing your body chemistry to ensure safe growth of your child."

That was better than Kang anticipated. "Are there any other side effects? I won't suddenly faint or vomit, will I?"

"Nothing like that," Keldanil assured, "and the cravings only come at night."

"That's fine. I don't think I'm going to feel hungry any time soon."

"Oh – not cravings for food," the Arume corrected. "This is... complicated."

"What do you mean?"

"It is a survival trait, engineered by our creators." Keldanil's composed air began to slip a little. "You know the origins of Arume, yes?"

Kang nodded slowly. "I know the basic story."

"Then I think you can appreciate the obstacles our makers faced when they transformed a heterosexual culture into a single-sex race. Persuading women to be intimate with one another was the simpler task: the real challenge lay in ensuring that the majority would remain together and form stable families."

Her solitary audience didn't like where this was going. "They resorted to behavior alteration."

"There is a strong bonding mechanism, enforced through pheromones." Keldanil blushed faintly. "For the next three or so days, you and Renaril will feel an increased desire for... intercourse."

Kang would have preferred the nausea. "Is that all?" she prompted, feeling a creeping dryness in her mouth.

"It is."

"Then we should get back to more urgent matters." The colonel stood up, ignoring the renewed pangs deep inside. "The fighting isn't over."

* * *

_Strategic Operations Wing_

_Eto Delo HQ, Hong Kong_

Renaril didn't like to think of herself as paranoid, but she couldn't throw off the feeling that Kang was avoiding her. The Arume's pregnant paramour hadn't come back to Liaison headquarters, but instead gone to the arms dealer's lair across the river. She acted curt and aloof when they spoke over the video link, actually _ordering_ the group commander to stay where she was. Renaril obeyed with reluctance, sticking to her post until night began to fall. By that time it seemed that a new North Korean attack was unlikely, and there was little that could still be done in the way of direct action: when Daemon packed up his things and made ready to depart, the petite alien went with him.

_And now,_ she resolved as she followed the dark-skinned man through a maze of bleak, florescently illuminated corridors, _I'll take Li back with me._

Daemon stopped at a door just like all the others, a featureless slab painted dull green, and knocked perfunctorily before entering. Renaril slipped in after him, finding herself in a plainly furnished conference room with a long table running down the middle. Kang was sitting with her back to the newcomers, intently focused on the scrawled notes and grainy printouts arrayed before herself. Schuhart sat at the far end in rumpled and bloodstained clothes, mulling over a large map together with the old Pole, Nereus, while Negadael, Eripol and Keldanil looked on. The arms dealer glanced up as Daemon joined the group, the scars on his face thrown into stark relief by the yellowy beam of light from above. "Smooth ride?"

"Smooth enough." Daemon sank into a free chair, laying his attache case on the tabletop. "Any progress?"

"Still working on fuel and right-of-way." Schuhart reached across the table and snagged the telephone which sat at Keldanil's elbow. "Lemme try Arbatskaya again." Taking up the handset, he dialed a long number with the speed of rote memorization. "Privyet, Komandir Blokhin... Da, eta Schuhart... Ya znayu, ya znayu. Gdye Nesterov?"

Renaril tuned him out. Protocol expected her to greet the visiting superior officer, but she was sure Keldanil wouldn't begrudge her for checking on Kang first. "Are you okay?"

"Perfectly," Kang muttered. "Sorry, but this will take a while. Go back and get some rest."

The group commander frowned. _It's you who should rest, not me._

She was thinking of a rebuttal when Schuhart hung up the phone with a loud clatter. "So much for that," he grumbled. "We may have to make overtures to the Zhejiang clique after all."

"The warlord?" Eripol asked. "What if he refuses?"

"What if he agrees and then betrays us?" Negadael chimed in.

"I'll stab him," said Schuhart with obvious relish. "In the face. With a screwdriver."

Renaril tried to pull her attention back to the problem at hand, but she was finding it hard to focus. She felt lightheaded all of a sudden, her skin hot under the thin layer of her uniform. _Oh..._ Understanding dawned as she looked down at her slender body. _Mating time._

"Let's go back together," she murmured, leaning forwards and encircling Kang's midriff with her arms. "I really missed you."

"Get off."

"Mm..?"

"Get _off!"_ The soldier leaped to her feet with such speed that her chair spun around and banged against the edge of the table. "What's wrong with you?"

The outburst propelled Renaril backwards onto the thin, synthetic rug. She sat there, looking up in dumb confusion as the object of desire stood over her, hands clenched into trembling fists. She saw anger on the other's face, but only a blind witness could overlook the way Kang's nipples stood proud under the thin material of her jumper, as hard as Renaril's own. The mixed messages only added to the Arume's distress. "I... I just..."

"I'm not your sex toy." The strain in Kang's voice churned Renaril's gut. "Don't go putting your hands on me whenever you like."

First Renaril had been ignored, and now she was being violently rebuffed in front of her most loyal subordinates, a guest who outranked her, and a man whom she had no doubt would cruelly exploit this schism. It was too much to bear. "Fine," she sobbed, fumbling for the door handle as she backed away. "Fine. I get it."

The door opened with a creak and shut with a bang. Tears streamed down the alien's cheeks as she fled.

* * *

_Strategic Self-Defense Force Regional HQ_

_Atsugi, Kanagawa Prefecture, Japan_

Shinano Haruna was also in a bitter mood that night, though for reasons which were more than strictly personal. Her tall, lanky frame cast long shadows across wet grass as she strode towards the perimeter fence of the base's low-security section. She found her goal in the darkest corner, away from the bright lights of the barracks and hangars: Lieutenant Tachibana's recent promotion hadn't dimmed his enthusiasm for stargazing, nor dulled his value as the senior officer's confidant.

Tachibana affected a brief salute. "Good evening, Colonel."

"Evening," Shinano grunted. "See anything good?"

"Trying to get a fix on Jupiter before the moon comes up." The lieutenant bent over the long tube of his Newtonian reflector. "Bah... Still getting a lot atmospheric rippling."

"I see."

"Oh well." They both knew Shinano hadn't come here for mere pleasantries. "What's the news?"

"The Ibuki zaibatsu is taking over," Colonel Shinano reported grimly. "It'll be made official tomorrow."

"The pretender will endorse them?"

"Yes... The new regime will formally be called a 'shogunate'."

"Tch." Tachibana straightened, leaving the telescope at rest. "What's their scheme?"

"Suspension of the constitution, martial law and an alliance with the Arume. Our generals have already pledged their support."

"What about the treaties with Korea? Straight into the wastebasket?"

"I expect so."

"Damn." The lieutenant rolled his head from side to side, working the muscles in his neck. "It feels like a coup."

Shinano nodded. "It does."

"What's the long-term agenda?" Tachibana lifted his beret and rubbed his scalp. "Expansion on the mainland?"

"Probably."

"Ambitions for a new empire." The junior officer didn't conceal his disgust. "That's _not_ what we need right now."

"I suspect the Arume would disagree with you there," Shinano replied. "I think it's a safe bet that they'll be pushing hard for intervention."

"A new empire, all right... So, what should we do?"

"Minimize casualties and pray that we aren't transferred to a position without power. I don't anticipate that our new masters will take dissent kindly."

"Me neither... I guess this is the end of the phony war, eh?"

"It seems that way," Shinano agreed.

"And I was just getting used to the peace," Tachibana joked humorlessly. "Everything has changed."

"No," Shinano corrected, gazing at the innumerable stars weakly twinkling above. "Everything is _about_ to change." She impulsively patted her subordinate's shoulder. "Enjoy the skies while you can."

"Thanks." Tachibana started to bend over his telescope once more, then ducked as something moved in the darkness on the other side of the fence. "Intruder, two o'clock..!"

The colonel dropped into a crouch, drawing her pistol from its holster. "Freeze!" she hissed.

The intruder, contrarily, rose to the full extent of his height, raising his arms over his head. He approached the fence slowly and without speaking, keeping that pose all the while.

Perhaps it was the sheer incongruity of his presence which delayed Shinano's recognition. "Itsuki!" she whispered, lowering her weapon. "How did you get in here? ...No, before that, where have you been? Did you go to Hiratsuka?"

Her mute son nodded solemnly. His clothes, as traditional as ever, were rumpled and dirty, and he stank of sweat and mud. He carried his prized sword on his back, though his mother fervently hoped he hadn't actually used it. _Better not ask how long he's been lurking out there, either._

"Did you think I wouldn't worry?" she admonished. "Go around to the gate and I'll let you in."

Itsuki shook his head. Stepping back a pace, he suddenly struck a pose: a grimacing, goose-stepping caricature of a North Korean soldier.

"What's that?" Shinano asked. "Something about the enemy?"

The shaggy-headed boy nodded. After holding the pose for a few seconds more, he relaxed momentarily and then mimicked the ferocious face and unmistakable salute of a certain ultranationalist party.

"The Great Sun Society?" That organization had an encampment in the coastal ruins of Hiratsuka, ripe grounds for spying. "What about them?"

Itsuki brought his hands together, hooking the index fingers like links in a chain.


	33. The Moment When Tension Broke

_Part 30: The Moment When Tension Broke_

_West bank of the Fen River  
Taiyuan, Shanxi Province, China  
April 10th, 2017_

Daybreak came under a heavy overcast sky, giving an aptly depressing hue to the line of emplacements overlooking the shallow waters. They were crude things, hastily molded out of quick-set concrete reinforced with scrap metal, but the hardworking men of the 236th had done their best with the materials at hand. The real problem lay in the shortage of mortars, heavy machine guns and light cannon which were needed to defend these positions: whichever units ended up digging in along this line would have to make do with what they carried among themselves.

"Colonel..?"

"You've done well." Kang Li turned away from the river, giving a wan salute. "Return to your men and wait for new orders."

"Understood." The personnel of the 236th Technical Battalion had been construction workers in civilian life, and their commander was a veteran foreman: like them, he still wore his company coveralls and hard hat, the yellow plastic painted over in a thick green. He returned the salute with a firmness born of grim determination, and departed.

"This is cozy." Mariko knelt and laid the long barrel of her rifle into one of the open-top slits in the emplacement wall. "Good shelter from direct fire... Put a forty-two-sixteen here and a one-twenty mortar in the back – that should lock this sector down pretty tight."

"Mm..."

"I know." The second woman rose. "We mustn't let them advance this far."

_Advance this far?_ Dark memories of Cambodia stirred in Kang's mind. _Not again. Not this time._

Mariko's attention was tugged elsewhere. "Listen," she said, pointing to the north. "That must be the shtrafniki moving out."

"Yes." Kang advanced a few steps, giving her a clear view up the riverbank to the wide bridge which spanned the sluggish, murky waters. The distant rumble grew louder, resolving into a weave of rattling tracks and grinding diesel engines. A silhouette appeared, a shape like a fat-headed duck traversing the concrete span from west to east. It was followed by another, and another, and another.

_Shtrafniki._

It was a good label for the men who were departing over there. The soldiers of the 90th Redemption Division were a mishmash of convicted criminals, detained deserters, and prisoners of war captured from rival warlords. They had volunteered for this service, a chance to earn rehabilitation or die striving for it, and now rode to face their fates on the backs of T-34s barely a week out of refit, carrying Mosins and Sudayevs issued almost straight from the crate. They looked for all the world like a reenactment of Stalin's original penal units, not a serious contribution to the defense of Shanxi.

The appearance was deceiving. There was no Order 227 in effect and there would be no blocking troops lurking in the 90th's rear, waiting to gun down any man who took a step back. Today's shtrafniki would not be called upon to clear minefields with their boots, nor were they expected only to soak up the enemy's bullets in advance of better soldiers. They were going to the frontline with seventy year old tanks and rifles not as part of their punishment, but because there was simply nothing better left to be sent.

For Kang, the procession was a painful reminder of just how dearly the past winter's disastrous Hebei encirclement had cost her allies. "Let us hope their training was time well spent," she said, turning her back to the scene. Even if they weren't fighting in the shadow of a dictator, most of them would probably die in the coming days. Even if they were wrongdoers, she felt guilty for sending them to their deaths.

"You mean, let's hope they don't bolt at the first chance."

"I don't think they will," Kang opined. "They know what the 'kwantungs' do with prisoners." She turned her head. "We have company."

"Hm?" Mariko withdrew from the squat fortress. "Oh, it's Sauer."

It was hard to mistake the small but muscular figure for anyone else as she pedaled towards them astride a drab Husqvarna army bicycle, the long barrel of an Ankara Mauser jutting over her shoulder like a broken-off spear. Throwing a leg up, the artificial girl dismounted nimbly, propped the bike against the rear of the emplacement and strode towards her seniors, drawing a folded set of papers from the breast pocket of her tunic. "A report for you from Uncle Roland, Colonel."

"Thank you." Delivery by courier meant contents of a personal nature. The Chinese officer scanned the document slowly, finding Schuhart's penmanship as sloppy as ever. "The Liaison is going to cut off our air corridor," she informed Mariko gravely. "No more transports can get through."

"I hope Renaril isn't punishing herself for it," the sniper replied.

"So do I." They had all been expecting this development: whatever Renaril felt personally, she was still a nominal ally of the invaders. She had to yield when pressed, and not just for her own sake. "The Sino-Arumic Liaison is reinforcing its occupying units in the Jinzhong finger," Kang narrated, reading the rest of the message. "No incidents of violence." She turned the page over. "The last supply flight brought us an additional set of Sprut anti-tank guns... That's good, now we can transfer some Spugs to fully secure the Datong gap." Over to the third page. "What's this? _Personal use... duration of operations... one Tiger tank, callsign 'Big Willy'... one Panzer Four tank, callsign 'Little Willy'... two Stug Four assault guns, callsigns 'Left Nut' and 'Right Nut'... one IS-Two tank_... Even for Schuhart, this is too much."

"The Darwins chose the names," said Sauer matter-of-factly. "Did Uncle Roland give you the artillery as well?"

"Assorted anti-tank and field guns, seventy-five to one-twenty-two millimeter, all obsolete... Sauer, I know Schuhart loves to find new uses for old equipment, but what does he expect me to do with these?"

"Now that the exhibit is closed, he expects you to use them as a final defense," the gosta answered, "but their actual disposal is up to you."

"Final defense..." Kang went back to the river, her mind working in variables of traverse, elevation and rate-of-fire, calculating extremes and averages of distance, angle and line-of-sight. "Place the towed pieces along the bank, covering the bridges. Hold the tanks and self-propelled guns in the rear as a reserve. Apply whatever camouflage you can knock together. What small arms does your company have?"

"Dregs," was Sauer's candid response. "Most of us are still using reamed-out Arisakas... We have three Type Twenty-Four Maxims, one of which isn't holding water, and two Inglis Brens without spare barrels. The only available explosives are stick grenades and improvised plastique charges."

"What about transportation?"

"A few half-tracks for towing, trucks for ammunition and bicycles for the gun crews. Uncle Roland calls it _The Ride of the Radfahr Raiders_."

"Make the best use of them," the officer encouraged her, "and scrounge whatever else you can. Raid the museum again if you have to."

The girl shook her pale head. "We already took everything that wasn't welded up or rusted out," she explained. "What's left isn't fit even for spares."

"I see." _Then so be it._ "Carry out your orders. I'll join you shortly."

"Yes, ma'am." Sauer snapped a salute and remounted the bicycle.

"She's taking this pretty well," Mariko remarked, watching as the gosta rode away.

Kang nodded. "It isn't the first time those girls have had to put everything on the line." She pushed her hands into her pockets as a sudden breeze swirled about her. "We're done here. Let's return to the command post."

"Yes, ma'am." Mariko followed the colonel's lead, a hand pressed to the top of her soft cap. "Strange..."

"What is?"

"It's already been nearly a year since I started working at Eto Delo. I remember the first day so clearly." She glanced to the side. "Hasn't it been a year for you, too?"

"A year..?"

"Since you and Renaril, er... got together?"

"Oh." Kang had to smile, wan as it might be, at her escort's forwardness. "Yes, almost a year."

"I thought so..."

"Go on," the soldier prompted, picking up on Mariko's hesitation. "What's on your mind?"

"The million-yuan question," the sniper admitted dryly. "Will you go back to her?"

Kang slowed without warning, leaving Mariko several steps ahead of her. "I want to," she confessed quietly. "I want to see them again... The woman I love, the child I left behind." The nylon sling of her rifle shifted, digging painfully into her shoulder. She slipped it off, cradling the heavy Norinco in her hands. "But I can't. Not before I've seen this through."

* * *

_The previous year – April 27th, 2016_

Kang felt hot and bothered, and not in a good way.

When Renaril ran out, the Chinese woman had soon followed – not to chase her down, but to escape the condemning faces of the witnesses. Her own escape went unchallenged, and she quickly found herself alone in a parking lot which Hong Kong's new masters were, in their own idiosyncratic way, converting into a sprawling garden. That was good, the flummoxed soldier decided: a perfect place to cool down before she went looking for her Arume counterpart... Except her plan wasn't working. No matter how long she paced back and forth along the winding paths, she felt as wound up as she was at the beginning. Kang couldn't remember ever feeling these urges so strongly, not even on the rare occasions when she guiltily allowed herself to lust after the unattainable Zheng Mei.

_Renaril, what have you done to me?_

She wouldn't be surprised to find the group commander curled up in some dark corner, crying over her rejection, desperately masturbating, or both... Now that the thought was in her head, self-service was starting to look like an appealing solution for her own discomfort.

_Stop it!_ Kang wrapped her arms tightly around herself before her hands could wander to places they shouldn't. _Stay focused! Don't give in!_

Reverting to a forced-march mentality might have saved her some embarrassment: "Colonel?" Keldanil called softly, walking through the garden towards her. "Are you all right?"

Kang looked away from the alien's concerned face. "...I'm sorry you had to see that."

"Why did you do it?" Undeterred by the cold reception, Keldanil closed in. "From my perspective, it was without justice."

"I know it was," said Kang flatly. "I know, but I... what are you doing?"

"Shh." The Arume slipped her arms around the trembling female, gently turning her so that they were face to face. "I have seen that you and Renaril care about each other very much," she said earnestly. "It pains me to watch you deny your feelings."

The unexpected closeness further fogged Kang's overtaxed intellect. "I... right now... these urges aren't my own." She tried to pull away, but Keldanil held her fast. "It's the nanomachines influencing me. You said so yourself..."

"That is not what I meant." Keldanil cocked her head. "Forgive me. I did not explain this correctly... The effect of the nanomachines is to lower inhibition and enhance sensitivity, that is all. You would not be so affected if your inherent desires were lacking."

"I'm not – "

"Please." The otherworlder neither raised her voice nor hardened her expression, but her firmness was conveyed perfectly. "This deception does not suit you."

"You think I'm lying?"

"I think you are," Keldanil replied bluntly. "Not to me, but to yourself."

Kang squirmed, inadvertently rubbing her breasts against Keldanil's and doing nothing to free herself from the iron embrace. "Please let go of me."

"If I do, will you hear what I have to say?"

What Kang really wanted was for this alien to stop invading her personal space, however noble the woman's intentions, before she would agree to anything. She understood, however, that stubbornness was not availing her. "...Very well."

"Thank you." Keldanil withdrew her hands. "Was I mistaken? Do you dislike Renaril?"

"No... No, I don't."

"Then, do you dislike being intimate with her?"

"I... No." The question threw Kang off-balance anew. She might have blushed, but it was subsumed by the persistent heat in her cheeks. "Master Commander, I cannot see how my personal problems concern you."

"No?" Keldanil lifted a white eyebrow. "Surely it is a commander's responsibility to see that strife among her allies is resolved amicably?" She smiled a little. "Well, I cannot bear to stand aside and do nothing when you and Renaril are so distressed. Your friend Roland Schuhart feels the same."

The frustrated female hadn't given much thought to her one-eyed comrade since she left him behind. "Where is he?"

"Looking for Renaril. He seemed very worried about her."

"Schuhart? Worried about Renaril?" Kang shook her head. "He barely tolerates her. What worries _him_ is how much harm she might do."

"It did not seem that way to me," Keldanil asserted, "but you know him far better than I."

"Nn..." With no end to either her own arousal or Keldanil's admonitions in sight, Kang reluctantly goaded herself into action. "We should look for her too," she said. "I have to apologize..."

The Arume didn't interfere as the soldier began to retrace her way back through the low vines and bushes, but she had not yet given up. "Is that all?" she pressed, following close behind.

Kang grimaced. "What else would you have me do?"

"Follow your instincts, of course."

"Even if my instincts tell me to rut like an animal? Is that what you mean?"

"It is." Keldanil projected supreme confidence. "You still have not given me any reason why – "

"Colonel!" It was Negadael, running towards them from the barracks section of the complex. "...Master Commander," the adjutant added, saluting hastily. "We found Renaril."

"Where?"

"At the, er... the canteen. Schuhart is with her."

Kang nodded. Her skin might be on fire, but there was a ball of ice in her gut. "Let's go."

* * *

"...And then they made me the boss."

Somehow Kang had feared she would find a crowd gathered, taking in some terrible spectacle. In fact, only Eripol stood guard outside the door of the canteen, a modestly improved hut of the Quonset pattern. She saluted stiffly, her nervous glance noted and filed away as Kang strode past and into the little building. Inside, Renaril was slouching on a stool with her chin on her forearms, her back to the door. Schuhart sat beside her, punctuating his narrative with dramatic gestures. "I thought I could get away from the gunfights and car chases," he was saying, "but _nooooo!_ Now that I'm the boss, I only get more of them – and now I have to deal with the paperwork, too. It makes me want to eat a grapefruit!"

"Why?"

The man offered an exaggerated shrug. "I don't know. Why not?"

"Ahem..."

"Oh, hey." The arms dealer spun away from the counter. "'Bout time you showed up, Colonel."

Kang ignored him. "Renaril, what are you doing here?"

"...Backwards."

"What?"

"Iss all backwards." The slender alien's speech was just this side of outright slurred. "You're bein' mean an'... an' he's bein' nice."

"I – "

The short-haired woman was cut off by the loud _clank_ of Schuhart's leg brace hitting the floor. "I need a word with you," he said curtly, the goofy act packed and stowed at a moment's notice. "Outside... Master Commander, would you look after our inebriate for a minute?"

"Certainly."

"Thanks." Schuhart locked eyes with Kang and jerked his head in the direction of the exit. She backed out, waiting meekly as he followed. Eripol took the hint and joined the others inside, shutting the door behind herself.

Kang took a deep breath and let it slide out. "She was drinking?"

"Wanted to drown her sorrows," the cyclops confirmed. "The Darwins were here when she came in, and they didn't say no. She went through two glasses of vodka before I caught up." He leaned against the corrugated sheet-metal wall of the canteen, staring out into the darkness. "I sent the twins to bed when she started spilling her guts."

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me." Schuhart folded his arms. "I heard you've got a kid on the way. Normally I'd congratulate you, but celebrating right now seems kind of... inappropriate."

_Thank you for acknowledging the obvious,_ Kang didn't say. "What else did she tell you?"

"She started to say something about Angkor, but then she clammed up. You expecting some kind of trouble with Cambodia?"

"No." Kang briefly wondered if she ought to thank Renaril for not blabbing about that incident. "It's old history."

"That's a relief," said Schuhart. "So what gives? A few days ago, you said pity sex was the limit. Next thing I know, she's knocked you up and you're having mood swings." He squinted at his companion, the anemic light from the bulb over the door drawing an illusory halo around his head. "Keldanil told me about the, ah... the hormone surges, but still – you freaked out because she tried to give you a _hug?"_

"There were conditions," the woman muttered resentfully. "If she couldn't keep the relationship private – "

"Really," the munitions magnate snorted. "That's a hell of a way to treat someone you like."

"Spare me the lecture," Kang sighed. "I've already had Keldanil tell me I should take Renaril straight to bed."

"Good," said Schuhart. "I agree with her."

_"Why?"_

The arms dealer was unfazed by the cry. "Why not? You like her, she likes you, what better way to make up?"

"Please don't pretend you understand how I feel," Kang groaned. "I'm not in love with her and I can't – "

"Stop that." Schuhart held up a hand. "You didn't fool Keldanil, you didn't fool Negadael and Eripol, and you're not fooling me. I wonder if you're even fooling yourself. The proof's all over your face... and not _only_ your face."

"You don't believe me either?" The scarred woman ignored the pointed reminder about her very visible erections, but she couldn't help bristling at his aura of self-assurance. "I tell you, I'm not interested – "

"Bullshit." The blond man pushed himself away from the wall. "If you weren't interested in Renaril, you wouldn't put up with her the way you do – never mind getting pregnant." He took a moment to morosely contemplate his boots, or so it seemed. "What's happened to you? You were never so squeamish in the old days... Where did we lose the Kang Li who feared nothing and stopped for no one?"

"She died," Kang replied flatly. "Around the same time as Schuhart the idealist, I believe."

"Ah, you got me there," the man conceded. "I almost miss the days when my life depended on sticky-back Velcro... Anyway, I just don't see why this is suddenly so hard. Not to be crude, but was the sex really that bad?"

"It's not about the sex." Under other circumstances, she would scarce believe such words were coming out of her own mouth. "I just... I can't go further."

There was a long quiet after that, and Kang started to wonder if Schuhart had run out of ready retorts. "I could say a lot of things to that," he began at last, "but I'm just going to say two." He held up a finger. "One, self-repression is bad for you."

"I'm not – "

_"Two."_ Up went the second finger. "You're in the same place I once was and you're making the same mistake I did. Don't follow my lead."

"What?" It didn't seem like a joke, but... "You – "

"Me, of all people... I didn't take the chance when I had it, and I've regretted it ever since."

That it was plainly a sensitive subject for him made the revelation all the more surprising. "When did you..?"

"It's a long story and I'm not telling it now." The man crossed his arms again. "Maybe you think bailing out will save you some grief in the long run. Take it from me, that's not something you wanna count on."

"You think I should take the risk, staying with Renaril."

"Yep."

"Why?" That word was getting record usage tonight. "You _hate_ Renaril."

"That's what she thought." There came the sardonic chuckle Kang knew so well. "She annoys me, sure, but I have to respect her determination... Do you know, she came to see me at Whampoa the other day – all by her timid self. Wanted advice on getting closer to you."

"And you gave it to her?"

Schuhart pursed his lips. "I acted like a total smartass," he confided. "Didn't think she had the guts to see it through... But I was wrong, and when I called your HQ from the convention center today – that was the real deal. No way she could fake it."

"I'm not questioning her sincerity," Kang grumbled, switching back onto the sour track. His persistence was starting to wear her down. "All right, suppose I stay with Renaril and let this go forward... and when it's common knowledge and our enemies exploit it, what then?"

"It's raining, it's pouring, the old man is snoring," Schuhart recited sarcastically. "He went to bed and bumped his head and might be dying of a cerebral hemorrhage." He planted his hands on his hips. "Those assholes will find something to harp on no matter _what_ you do. Fuck 'em." There was a growing undercurrent of annoyance in the words. "Any more excuses? I can stand here all night."

He would, too. "I didn't come here to argue with you," the soldier pleaded, hoping to head him off. "Why can't you just let me be?"

_"Well – !_ Besides the fact that I _do_ give a damn about your long-term happiness and well-being, I have to roll off the couch tomorrow, round up my aircav boys and figure out how we're gonna kick the Norks out of Shanghai. We don't need _this_ on top of everything _else_ that's been heaped on our backs."

"I'm sorry."

"Save it. The best thing you can do right now is to take that sad little lady someplace quiet, do her until you drop and worry about the war effort in the morning... But it's your choice," the dealer continued, having stopped for air momentarily. "I can pester you 'til the cows come home, but I can't make it for you."

Kang's wall of resistance finally cracked. "Enough," she sighed, raising her hands. "I give up... I'll stay with her tonight, and when she's sober we'll talk things over, all right?"

"It beats leaving her in the ditch." Grudging approval, but approval regardless. "Go on, then."

One problem was allayed, at least for the moment, but it only made way for another: "How am I going to take her back to headquarters in that state?" the woman wondered, looking at the canteen door with trepidation.

"Why bother?" said Schuhart offhandedly. "We've got some open rooms in the girls' dorm. I don't mind putting you up for the night... The others, too."

"I don't want to be a – "

"It's just Mariko and the gosta living there right now. KK is sleeping in the workshop loft tonight, she won't bother you... You'd have to come back in the morning anyway, right?"

"I – yes, we would... Thank you."

"Whatever I can do for you." Schuhart shrugged. "You collect the entourage, I'll go make the arrangements. See you at the west door."

"Mm."

The one-eyed man nodded, stuck his hands into his fatigue pockets and limped away, quietly singing to himself. "I could hold my head up high and say that I left first... Or I can hang my head and cry – tell me which is worse..."

Kang inhaled, exhaled, inhaled again, and reached for the door's handle. All eyes were on her as she reentered the room. "Schuhart will let us stay on the base tonight," she informed her staff. "Is there anything you need from Guangzhou?"

Negadael and Eripol shook their heads.

"Very well." Renaril was watching her with subdued sullenness: a shiver raced up Kang's spine when the pair's eyes met. "I think we, um... we both need to get some rest."

"Us... together?"

"That's right."

The booze-befuddled alien took several seconds to think the proposal over. "You're not... angry?"

"No, I'm not angry." Kang held out her hands. "See?"

It was as if she were trying to entice a skittish animal. Renaril kept her wide, red-rimmed eyes on Kang the whole time, obviously expecting her to lash out again. The Arume didn't relax until she had her arms snug around the taller woman's waist. Looking over the top of her head, Kang found Keldanil all but beaming at the pair.

* * *

Things calmed down a little after that. Keldanil excused herself, saying she needed to return to her shuttle and finish a report. Walking in the night breeze helped shake Renaril out of her stupor, though she leaned on Kang all the way to the dormitory, where Schuhart met them at the door with Carcano and Vickers. The man quickly took off to resume his plotting, leaving the gosta to show the guests to their rooms and bid them good night before they too disappeared into some other part of the building. The room Kang and Renaril shared was small and spartan, with whitewashed cinder-block walls and a narrow window. There was a bare wooden desk with a bare wooden chair, and a bed which was just large enough for the two of them. Everything smelled new... new and never occupied.

Renaril had already made up her mind as to the sleeping arrangements: she left her shoes at the door, draped her bodysuit over the chair and sprawled naked on the blanket, waiting languidly for her companion to come to her. It was uncharacteristically bold behavior: Kang wasn't sure whether to blame the alcohol or the hormones, but she knew the alien was angling for more than a verbal apology.

She put it off long enough to remove her own shoes, then, resigning herself to her fate, went to the bed and sat down. "I'm sorry, Renaril," she began self-consciously. "I've treated you very badly." _So far, so good._ "Tomorrow, uh... tomorrow, let's – "

"I love you, Li."

"Um..."

"I love you a lot." Renaril knelt, spreading her knees and pressing the whole length of her body against Kang's back. "So please," she murmured, nuzzling the side of her elder's neck, "please don't go..."

"I'm... not going anywhere." She could feel the burn starting again – the pounding of her heart, the flush in her face. "I'm staying right here, I promise."

"Nnn..." Delicate hands crept around Kang's hips. "Why are you scared?"

"I'm not – "

_"This deception does not suit you."_

_"You think I'm lying?"_

_"I think you are. Not to me, but to yourself."_

"Li..?"

_"I have seen that you and Renaril care about each other very much."_

_"You like her, she likes you."_

_"You would not be so affected if your inherent desires were lacking."_

_"If you weren't interested in Renaril, you wouldn't put up with her the way you do."_

_"You still have not given me any reason why."_

_"I just don't see why this is suddenly so hard."_

"...I don't know." And here the charade ended, with a humiliating confession. "I don't know why I'm so afraid."

Renaril laid her palms against Kang's stomach. "Are you scared of loving me?"

"I..." The warrior swallowed. "What if I am?"

"Then I'll work hard until... until you aren't scared any more." Renaril leaned forwards, pressing harder against Kang's back, and sniffed almost curiously. "Li?"

"Huh..?"

"You're wet."

Kang clenched her thighs together, averting her face from Renaril's attentive gaze. "You're so close," she gasped. "I can't stop it..."

"Mm..?" Adding insult to injury, Renaril seemed pleased by this. "My fault?"

The alien shifted, bare skin sliding over thin fabric. Kang could picture those small breasts rubbing against her shoulder blades with aggravating clarity. _"Yes!"_

The Arume slid her fingers under the bottom of the rumpled jumper, pulling it up unopposed. "Let me..."

Suddenly everything clicked. It was a catch-22, a self-fulfilling prophecy: Kang had run from the truth in fear of its consequences, but the running led her straight back to them. She was losing control of herself and there was nothing she could do to stop it. What she had taken so long to figure out, what the others had taken for granted all along, was that it didn't _need_ to be stopped.

* * *

"For the moment I think we can take the angel and the amazon off our list of things to worry about."

Brian Rodney cast a skeptical look over the top of his Thinkpad. "Really."

Schuhart pouted at him. "Give me a _little_ credit, Daemon. They needed a nudge in the right direction, is all." The boss lowered himself into his chair and rolled it up to the conference table. "So what's new?"

"A whole lotta nothing." On the other side of him, Andrzej Majewski spun a mechanical pencil between his callused fingers. "The crystal ball is cloudy."

"You know what they say, Nereus." Schuhart flipped through the pile of papers which had grown up in his absence, affecting an unconcerned air. "No news is good news."

"Like hell it is."

Brian agreed with his Polish colleague. If _somebody_ didn't budge before go-hour, the Liaison would be fighting uphill all the way to Shanghai. So would Eto Delo, if the situation continued to develop along the path he projected. Schuhart knew that, of course, but he was feeling entirely too chipper right now to show it. "I don't want to dampen your mood," the chief of intelligence said aloud, "but if the Zhejiang clique won't back down and the Kremlin won't help, we – "

Then the telephone in the middle of the table rang. Schuhart stretched out his arm and snagged the handset. "Yeah? Hi, Nadya... Really?" An eyebrow arched. "Of course, put him through... Well, who'd have thought it – the man himself! What do you want, you old miser? ...No kidding. Uh-huh... Hard to say right now, but it's worth a shot... Yeah... No, that's fine. I'll call you in the morning with an estimate... 'Bye."

He looked even happier now, to Brian's disquiet. "Who was that?"

"That – " The arms dealer did a drumroll on the tabletop. " – was Ikari Gendou."

The name stirred up memories, most of them bad. "And what does Ikari Gendou want?"

"Ikari Gendou wants to know if we would go to Shanghai on his tab." Schuhart pushed away from the table, got up and limped over to the whiteboard beside the projector screen. Snatching up a red marker, he took aim at the legend _ZHEJIANG CLIQUE?_ and wrote a majestic ←_ FUCK 'EM!_ beside it. "Treue Genossen, our bad deal is getting better."

* * *

There was a metallic _snap_ when Renaril, frustrated by the clasp of the bra, grabbed the straps on either side and jerked it apart. The supporting tension around Kang's chest slackened as those same fingers returned to her front side, pushing up under the loosened cups until her breasts settled into the Arume's upturned palms. "Gently," the recipient prompted, struggling not to clench her jaw.

"Mm-hm." Renaril was still for a few seconds, feeling the weight and the softness in her hands. She spread her fingers, just enough to let the nipples protrude between them, and made a slow squeezing motion. "...Good?"

"Ah – !"

"Good." Renaril made an exploratory massaging motion with her fingertips. "Li..."

"Uh..?"

"Do you... do it by yourself?"

"N-not often..."

"I want to see." The alien punctuated her request by stroking an areola. "So I know... what kinds of touch you like."

Kang liked _that_ kind of touch. "Oh..!"

It was all the encouragement Renaril needed. Her fingers moved more rapidly now, and she increased the tempo of her grinding against Kang's half-exposed back. "Li," she panted, "I want to... together – "

The soldier was already being pushed beyond the threshold of coherence. She hadn't actually been touched below the waist even once, but after the prolonged excitement, this pleasure from being fondled so aggressively was feeding back into her nether parts... building up to a final overload. "I – I can't..!"

"Wait!" Renaril pushed herself up on her knees, her legs still spread wide, and thrust her wet sex against the base of her lover's spine. "I... I'm almost... almost there – "

Too late. Kang's mind went blank, her back arching involuntarily. Fingers like claws sank into the edge of the bed as she threw her head back, crying out in time to the contractions deep inside. "Aah – aah – aah – _aaaaah!"_

Renaril caught up as the orgasm faded, clinging to her opposite while she rode out her own climax with a long, low whimper. Finally spent, she slumped against Kang like a puppet with cut strings. The whole encounter couldn't have taken even five minutes. "Haaah... haaah..."

As she slowly returned to her senses, Kang found herself both exhausted and oddly relived. She could feel the Arume's sticky fluids coating her lower back and, as the tingling in her groin faded away, realized that she had completely soaked her own panties, but she felt detached from these mundane worries. "Was that... all right?"

"Mm." Renaril extended a trembling hand, reaching across Kang's throat. "I finally heard your breaking voice." Cupping the other woman's cheek, she turned the face towards her own and planted a gentle kiss. "I've wanted to hear it for so long... It's beautiful."

"I, um... I'm glad you're happy." She might have shaken off the effects of the liquor, but Kang could still taste a hint of the Avtomat on her lips. That couldn't be helped now – ditto the soiled clothes. Nothing for it but to strip them off and get into bed. "I hope Schuhart doesn't mind the mess," the colonel said to herself as she pulled the jumper over her head. "I didn't think to ask if he would bill us for this."

"Doesn't matter," Renaril declared, her voice soft and filled with contentment. She fumbled with the button of Kang's jeans, got it out of its hole after a couple of tries, and moved on to the zipper. "For this... for being with you, I'd pay anything."


	34. Bonus Item: Character Reference Sheet

As requested, a marvelously useless reference list of named characters – **contains unmarked spoilers**

_Ackley, Daniel (d. 3/17/2016)  
2L American male  
Private, North American Pacification Force_

A collaborator soldier, friend of Alan Rigby. Killed by Karan during the invasion of Hong Kong.

_Aida Kensuke  
3L Japanese male  
Military buff; friend of Ikari Shinji_

Witnessed the first Arume landing in third layer Japan. Has been keeping a low profile since the Arume arrived, for reasons known only to himself.

_Aimo (d. 4/12/2016)  
2L Finnish male  
Sniper, Free European Finland Corps_

A member of Mari's team of scout snipers. Killed by an Arume gunship in Rovaniemi.

_Alcazar y Bazarov, Juan Maria  
3L San Theodoran male  
Banana republic president_

A deposed dictator, facing trial for corruption when the Second Layer War began.

_Anastasiya  
3L Belarusian female  
Helicopter pilot, Eto Delo Group_

Pilot of a tank hunter taking part in the Shanghai counterattack.

_Astra  
1L gosta  
Automatic rifleman's assistant, Eto Delo Group_

Smallest of the gosta, paired with Johnson. Currently in a relationship with Keiko.

_Averkin (d. 3/17/2016)  
3L Russian male  
Section leader, Eto Delo Group_

Was killed early in the invasion of Hong Kong. His squad of volunteers deserted and murdered three Arume prisoners.

_Azanael (b. 1/2/1966, d. 2071)  
1L Arume  
Flight Chief, Arume Naval Air Service (ACS _Novaal_ 1992-1999); Sino-Arumic Liaison (2016- )_

Served aboard the flagship of the pre-invasion reconnaissance fleet in the second layer. Was manipulated by Shivariel into attacking Ekaril. Found work as a civilian pilot after the invasion, but was recalled to service when the Arume entered the third layer. Lives with Kawashima Akane and the Kouzuki family. Has psychological problems stemming from guilt over her past actions.

_Bai Jingli (d. 2004)  
3L Chinese male  
Sergeant, People's Liberation Army Ground Force_

Kang Li's last surviving superior during the siege of Angkor Wat. Rescued after the siege, but was subsequently wounded by a mine and committed suicide.

_Benacirael (d. 3/17/2016)  
1L Arume  
Group Commander, Arume Navy (ACS _Defiant Fragaria_ 2014-2016)_

Officer assigned to lead the invasion of Hong Kong, displacing Renaril. Harsh and openly contemptuous of her predecessor. Drowned in the sinking of _Defiant Fragaria_.

_Benelli  
1L gosta  
Rifleman, Eto Delo Group_

Member of the second squad.

_Blokhin  
3L Russian male  
Member of Russian Ministry of Defense_

One of Eto Delo's contacts in the Russian government.

_Borchardt  
1L gosta  
Automatic rifleman's assistant, Eto Delo Group_

Krag's loader and spotter.

_Cao (d. 2004)  
3L Chinese male  
Private, People's Liberation Army Ground Force_

A member of Kang Li's company during the siege of Angkor. Was KIA sometime before the Chinese forces pulled out of Cambodia.

_Carcano  
1L gosta  
Rifleman, Eto Delo Group_

Member of the first squad.

_Chloe  
3L English female  
Informant, Eto Delo Group_

A London-based agent, monitoring the buying and selling trends of European armies.

_Daebaril  
1L Arume  
Senior Counselor, Arume High Council; mother of Renaril_

An aloof, demanding parent. Holds high expectations of her daughter, but does little to nourish Renaril's potential. Unexpectedly gave her blessing to Renaril's courting of Kang Li.

_Darwin, Errol  
3L Australian male  
Electrician, Royal Australian Navy (1999-2008); explosive ordnance specialist, Eto Delo Group_

A crazy straight Australian, twin brother of Phil. A _Red Dwarf_ fan, to judge by his forehead tattoo. Originally specialized in electronics, later branching out into explosives. Builds railguns as a hobby.

_Darwin, Phillip  
3L Australian male  
Marksman, Australian Army (1 RAR 1999-2009); sniper, Eto Delo Group_

A crazy gay Australian, twin brother of Errol. A talented shooter with combat experience in Indonesia, Madagascar and Liberia. Holds that Rick Astley's _Never Gonna Give You Up_ is the best song ever written.

_Darwin, Phillip  
2L Australian male  
Marksman, Australian Army (1999-2001); sniper, Free European Foreign Volunteers (2005- )_

The second layer's Phil Darwin started out much like his third layer counterpart, but the loss of his family to Arume attacks and sixteen years of endless war have left him cold inside. He maintains the cheerfully mad facade for the sake of his comrades. Officially he and Michael MacFarlane are the only survivors of the Arume gunship attack in Rovaniemi.

_Dwyer, Joseph Luther  
3L American male  
Murderer_

Leader of a group of youths who beat a gay man to death shortly after the beginning of the war.

_Edamamel ("Eda")  
1L Arume  
Technician, Arume Navy (ACS _Narwhal_); member of commando unit_

A survivor of first contact between the Arume and the third layer. A lecher according to her comrades, a rapist according to Keiko.

_Ekaril ("Senkouji Hagino")  
1L Arume  
Commander, Arume Navy (ACS _Blue_ 1991-1999?)_

An officer of the Fifth Fleet, Ekaril lost all but one member of her crew when her ship was sabotaged in the Kamiokijima incident. While undertaking a long-duration reconnaissance mission, she met and began a romantic relationship with the only Terran survivor, Wakatake Mari. Turned against her comrades and sacrificed herself in an attempt to slow the invasion. Rumors that she faked her death and secretly escaped persist.

_Elaqebil  
1L Arume  
Superintendent, Bureau of Forime Affairs; mentor of Renaril; friend of Azanael_

A chubby former academy instructor with a love of Terran popular culture, particularly movies. Helped Azanael find employment after the invasion.

_Erkki (d. 4/12/2016)  
2L Finnish male  
Sniper, Free European Finland Corps_

A member of Mari's team of scout snipers. Killed by an Arume gunship in Rovaniemi.

_Eripol  
1L Arume  
Operator, Sino-Arumic Liaison (2016- )_

One of Renaril's loyal aides. A skilled computer hacker.

_Feng  
3L Chinese male  
Medic, People's Liberation Army Ground Force_

The only member of Kang Li's company apart from herself to survive the Cambodian campaign. Moved abroad after leaving the PLA, taking the secret of Liang Yongwei's death with him.

_Ferenil  
1L Arume  
AV-98 pilot, Arume Navy (Second Fleet Land Operations Battalion)_

A hovercraft operator, captured during the battle at Lion Rock Tunnel. Severely injured during the enforcement of Rule 303 and sent back to the first layer to recuperate.

_Finlay, Ernest Harley  
3L Canadian male  
Political analyst_

A leading expert on Marxist theory and communist ideologies.

_Fukamachi  
2L Japanese male  
Kaiou Headmaster; father of Kawashima Akane_

The easygoing headmaster of Kaiou Academy, where Mari met Ekaril in 1999. Was tortured by Arume security forces after Mari fled Japan. The mistreatment exacerbated his prior health problems and left him virtually bedridden.

_Funatsumaru Hiroko  
2L Japanese female  
Owner of seafood company; Kaiou alumnus_

Chief of the dormitory shared by Mari and Ekaril. Inherited her family's business after the invasion.

_Funatsumaru Nia  
2L Japanese female  
Niece of Funatsumaru Hiroko_

Born just before the invasion. Employed by Kawashima Akane's restaurant.

_Funatsumaru Noriko  
2L Japanese female  
Niece of Funatsumaru Hiroko_

A toddler at the time of the invasion. Employed by Kawashima Akane's restaurant.

_Gilham, Steven  
3L English male  
MP, Sensible Party_

A leading figure of the opposition, standing against the increasingly totalitarian ruling party.

_Guo Hao  
3L Chinese male  
Private, People's Liberation Army Ground Force (2014-2016); Shanxi Defense Force (2016- )_

Was present during the Aru-Japanese Alliance's invasion of Shanxi in 2017. His autobiography became a bestseller after the war.

_Hakim  
3L Jordanian male  
Hitman_

An eccentric assassin with a strict taste in weapons. Emplyed by Eto Delo for difficult jobs.

_Harrington (b. 2010, d. 2058)  
1L gosta  
Marksman, Eto Delo Group; partner of Richardson_

The first squad's sharpshooter. A touch-telepath, able to receive sensory information from other Arume and gosta. Works exclusively with Richardson.

_Harrington, Valentina  
3L gosta-Russian female  
Granddaughter of Harrington and Richardson_

Met Yanami Shouta in 2079 while searching for information about her ancestors.

_Hayabusa Otori  
3L Japanese male  
Manga author_

Featured the Spug hovercraft in one of his most popular works.

_al-Hejazi, Abu Muhammad Omar al-Rashid bin Salaad bin Ibrahim  
3L Saudi Arabian male  
Arms dealer; shipping magnate_

A crooked tycoon. Arch-rival of Roland Schuhart, whom he has repeatedly tried to assassinate.

_Holland, Malcolm (d. 3/17/2016)  
2L American male  
Private, North American Pacification Force_

A collaborator soldier, friend of Alan Rigby. Killed by Karan during the invasion of Hong Kong.

_Holland, Michael (d. 3/17/2016)  
2L American male  
Private, North American Pacification Force_

A collaborator soldier, friend of Alan Rigby. Killed by Karan during the invasion of Hong Kong.

_Huang, Gerald  
3L Chinese male  
Forensic ballistics technician, Hong Kong Police_

Determined that one of the assailants in the Zhui killings used a Thompson submachine gun.

_Hunley, Logan  
3L American male  
Televangelist; US Senator from Alabama_

A firebrand orator, inciting the American population to reject all contact with the Arume. Aspires to a higher platform than the Senate floor.

_Hyman, Harold  
3L American male  
US Marine Corps (1967-1997); MACV-SOG (1970-1972); cofounder, Darkstar Global Security Enterprises LLC (2003- )_

An aging mercenary, hired by Benacirael to advise her invasion of Hong Kong. Had a previous run-in with the leaders of Eto Delo. Deported to the United States after Benacirael's death.

_Hyuga Makoto  
3L Japanese male  
Lieutenant, UN Special Agency 'Nerv'_

Watchdog teamster, confidant of Katsuragi Misato.

_Ibuki Atago  
3L Japanese male  
Corporate heir_

A bloodthirsty sadist with unbridled ambitions. Soon to be installed as shogun of Japan.

_Ibuki Chokai  
3L Japanese male  
Corporate heir; neo-Nazi_

A wannabe fascist, no less ambitious than his brother.

_Ibuki Maya  
3L Japanese female  
Lieutenant, UN Special Agency 'Nerv'_

A good apple in a family full of rotten ones.

_Ibuki Takao  
3L Japanese female  
Physical education instructor_

Brash and outspoken, unlike her older sister. Recently returned to Japan after studying in the US.

_Ikari Gendou  
3L Japanese male  
Commander, UN Special Agency 'Nerv'; father of Ikari Shinji_

A brooding schemer who has abandoned his masters at Seele. Liked by few and trusted by fewer, despite his attempts to patch things up with his family and subordinates.

_Ikari Shinji  
3L Japanese male  
Former Evangelion pilot; photographer_

A boy going nowhere fast, or so he thinks.

_Isanil ("Isabel", "Majestic-6")  
1L Arume  
Commander, Arume Navy (ACS _Narwhal_); leader of commando unit_

A survivor of first contact between the first and third layers. Captain of an 'unremarkable' artillery frigate and leader of MJ-12's strike team.

_Isobael (d. 3/17/2016)  
1L Arume  
Captain, Arume Navy (Second Fleet Land Operations Battalion)_

Captured during the battle at Lion Rock, later killed by Roland Schuhart when Rule 303 was declared.

_Jiang Dongming  
3L Chinese male  
General, People's Liberation Army (until 2016); leader of Shanxi Provisional Administration (2016- )_

Took control of Shanxi Province following the collapse of the central government, adopting a policy of neutrality towards other warlords. Maintains cordial relations with his former student, Kang Li, despite tensions between Shanxi and the Sino-Arumic Liaison.

_Jiang Xue (b. 1999, d. 2018)  
3L Chinese female  
Member of Shanxi provisional gov't; daughter of Jiang Dongming_

Memorialized by a statue in a postwar cemetery.

_Johnson  
1L gosta  
Automatic rifleman, Eto Delo Group_

A Bren gunner in the second squad.

_Kaji Ryouji ("Majestic-9")  
3L Japanese male  
Informant, UN Special Agency 'Nerv'_

A scruffy spy with many connections. Leaked a document about the Evangelion project to the Arume.

_Kang Li (b. 5/1/1987)  
3L Chinese female  
Colonel, People's Liberation Army Ground Force (served 2003-2016); military commander of Sino-Arumic Liaison (2016- )_

A gifted but unpopular officer who would probably have spent the rest of her career in obscurity, had Renaril not chosen her to be her closest adviser. The professional relationship has quickly become personal despite Kang's efforts. Architect of the 'New Communism' reform movement, born of her disgust at the weakness and hypocrisy of the old system.

_Karan  
3L Indian male  
Sniper, Eto Delo Group_

A friend of Schuhart, Daemon and Nereus before the founding of Eto Delo. An expert shot.

_Kataphel ("Kate")  
1L Arume  
Engineer, Arume Navy (ACS _Narwhal_); member of commando unit_

A survivor of first contact in the third layer. Serves as the heavy weapon specialist for the MJ-12 strike team.

_Katsuragi Misato  
3L Japanese female  
Colonel, UN Special Agency 'Nerv'_

In de facto command of Nerv's daily operation after Third Impact. Leads the organization's makeover as an anti-Eva watchdog.

_Kawashima Akane (b. 5/27/1981)  
2L Japanese female  
Restauranteur; Kaiou alumnus_

School friend of Mari and Michiko. A rough-and-tumble chef, owner of a restaurant in second layer Kobe. Shares her bed with Azanael, but seems uninterested in pursuing a relationship.

_Keldanil  
1L Arume  
Master Commander, Dutch-Danish United Front; friend of Mariel_

A reformist leader, ousted from her last posting for lenience towards her subjects. Starting anew in the third layer.

_Khan  
3L Pakistani male  
Infantry commander, Sholay Defence Company_

A mercenary field officer with a background in mountain combat.

_Klapp, Karl Erich (b. 1902, d. 1965)  
3L German male  
Germany Army (1926-1945); West German Army (1955-1961)_

Commander of a unit which abandoned a large amount of equipment in a Baltic swamp while retreating from the Red Army in 1944. The equipment was recovered in the late 2000s and passed into the hands of Eto Delo.

_Korth  
1L gosta  
Rifleman, Eto Delo Group_

A member of the first squad, under Richardson.

_Kouzuki Michiko  
2L Japanese female  
Writer; peace activist; Kaiou alumnus_

A schoolmate of Mari, Akane and Ekaril. Wrote and directed the play _Maiden of Orleans_, inspired by the relationship between Mari and Ekaril. After the invasion, she settled in Kobe together with Akane, Azanael and Tsubael.

_Kouzuki Yuko (b. 2010)  
2L Arume-Japanese female  
Daughter of Tsubael and Kouzuki Michiko_

Born from an alcohol-inspired coupling, her conception secured the bond between her parents. A curious and imaginative child, like her mother.

_Kovalchuka, Keiko Gordonovna  
3L American female(?)  
Operations Director, Eto Delo Group_

A mysterious person. Claims to be the daughter of a dead soldier of fortune, and Roland Schuhart's cousin. Predatory towards other woman, particularly Kang Li.

_Krag  
1L gosta  
Automatic rifleman, Eto Delo Group_

Second squad's other Bren gunner. The most physically developed of the gosta.

_Krieghoff  
1L gosta  
Rifleman, Eto Delo Group_

A first squad member with a preference for large-caliber carbines.

_Laforey, Camilla  
3L English female  
Daughter of Nigel Laforey; love interest of Sauer; under protection of Eto Delo Group_

Came to Hong Kong to join the resistance against the Arume. Badly burned by a flamethrower during the attempted invasion, forcing the amputation of her left arm.

_Laforey, Nigel Ingram  
3L English male  
Deposed Seele executive_

Sat on the Human Instrumentality Committee before turning against his colleagues. In hiding since Third Impact.

_Lai  
3L Chinese male  
Informant, Hong Kong Police_

Infiltrated the Zhui gang's Californian operation.

_Lebedev, Seva Nikolayevich ("Freebooter")  
3L Russian male  
Squad leader, Eto Delo Group_

Took over command of security teams after Anton Zozulya was wounded.

_Lebel  
1L gosta  
Rifleman, Eto Delo Group_

Second squad member.

_Lee, Metford (d. 3/17/2016)  
3L Chinese male  
Restauranteur_

Survived the bombing of Hong Kong and was accidentally instrumental in reuniting Kang Li and Roland Schuhart. Killed by Benacirael's troops in Yuen Long.

_Liang Yongwei (d. 2/28/2004)  
3L Chinese male  
Private, People's Liberation Army Ground Force_

Kang Li's closest friend in the first months of the Cambodian campaign. During the siege of Angkor, he suffered a nervous breakdown and raped her, then killed himself with grenades.

_Lin Qinsong  
3L Chinese male  
General, People's Liberation Army (until 2016)_

A would-be warlord who tried to destroy the Sino-Arumic Liaison with a preemptive attack. Defeated and imprisoned.

_MacFarlane, Michael  
2L Canadian male  
Sniper, Free European Foreign Volunteers_

Fought in the Free European Forces' retreat from Scotland and on the front lines in Norway before transferring to Finland. Left paralyzed from the waist down by the gunship attack in Rovaniemi.

_"Majestic-1"_

_Leader of anti-imperialist faction?_

A man with a pipe. No other details.

_"Majestic-7"_

_Member of anti-imperialist faction_

MJ-12's agent inside Eto Delo. Leaked a document about the Arume to third layer governments.

_"Majestic-11"  
1L Arume  
Member of anti-imperialist faction_

An MJ-12 agent inside the Arume bureaucracy.

_"Majestic-12"  
1L Arume  
Member of anti-imperialist faction_

An MJ-12 agent inside the Arume bureaucracy.

_Majewski, Andrzej ("Nereus")  
3L Polish male  
Armorer, Polish Land Forces (retired 2002); Technical Director, Eto Delo Group_

Settled in Asia after an acrimonious divorce. Worked with Daemon and Schuhart before the establishment of Eto Delo.

_Maksim  
3L Russian male  
Helicopter pilot, Eto Delo Group_

Copilot of the tank hunter in the Shanghai counterattack.

_Mannlicher  
1L gosta  
Rifleman, Eto Delo Group_

A fighter in the second squad.

_Mao (d. 2004)  
3L Chinese male  
Private, People's Liberation Army Ground Force_

Constructed booby traps during the siege of Angkor. Killed just days before the evacuation.

_Meng (d. 2004)  
3L Chinese male  
Major, People's Liberation Army Ground Force_

Came to an especially gristly end during the siege of Angkor.

_Mariel ("Ma-chan")  
1L Arume  
Master Commander, occupation of 2L Japan (2009-2011); Aru-Kazakh Administration (2016- )_

A small, energetic Arume. Oversaw a brief relaxation of control in second layer Japan before being ousted by more conservative leaders.

_Misato ("Majestic-3")  
1L Arume(?)  
Member of anti-imperialist faction_

A companion of Yui. No other details.

_al-Misri, Hakim ibn Khaled  
3L Egyptian-American male  
Historian_

Interviewed veterans of the war in the late 2030s.

_Nebaril ("Nell")  
1L Arume  
Navigator, Arume Navy (ACS _Narwhal_); member of commando unit_

Short-tempered and sharp-tongued. Survived first contact in the third layer. Sharpshooter of MJ-12's strike team.

_Negadael  
1L Arume  
Operator, Sino-Arumic Liaison (2016- )_

The other of Renaril's loyal aides.

_Nesterov  
3L Russian male  
Member of Russian Ministry of Defense_

An Eto Delo contact inside the Kremlin.

_Onomil (d. 1994)  
1L Arume  
Navigator, Arume Navy (ACS _Blue_ 1991-1994); partner of Azanael_

One of hundreds of victims of Shivariel's sabotage during the second layer reconnaissance operation. Killed while trying to prevent an explosive breakdown of _Blue_'s powerplant.

_Philippe  
3L French male  
Member of European NGO_

Representative of a group which contracted Eto Delo for logistical support in southern Africa.

_Ponsonby, Arbuthnot  
3L Scottish male  
Chemist, Eto Delo Group_

A scientist and former Seele employee. Later wrote a series of popular histories about Seele and the Second Layer War.

_Ramazonov  
3L Russian male  
Captain, Russian Navy_

Commanded the Russian observers in Macau during Benacirael's invasion of Hong Kong.

_Razael (b. 1975)  
1L Arume  
Bioengineer_

Conducted experiments on Terran subjects circa 2009. Disciplined for misconduct by Mariel and transferred to an academic position.

_Renaril (b. 1990)  
1L Arume  
Group Commander, Sino-Arumic Liaison_

A fragile young woman, beset by enemies on all sides. Pursuing a relationship with Kang Li.

_Richardson (b. 2010, d. 2058)  
1L gosta  
Spotter, Eto Delo Group; partner of Harrington_

Exclusive partner of Harrington. A de facto leader among the gosta.

_Rigaud, Paul  
3L American male  
Hate crime victim_

Murdered by a gang of homophobic youths during a rash of violence provoked by the arrival of the Arume.

_Rigby, Alan  
2L American male  
Lieutenant, North American Pacification Force (2014-2019); Hydra Protection Services LLC (2019-2035)_

Survived the invasion of Hong Kong. Later joined one of Eto Delo's subsidiary PMCs. Was interviewed by Hakim al-Misri after his retirement.

_Rodney, Brian ("Daemon")  
3L Afro-English male  
Former journalist; Intelligence Director, Eto Delo Group_

Cofounded Eto Delo together with Schuhart and Nereus. A slightly acerbic cosmopolitan who speaks five languages.

_Rubin  
1L gosta  
Rifleman, Eto Delo Group_

A member of first squad. More talkative than her sisters.

_Ruslan  
3L Ukrainian male  
Heavy weapon specialist, Eto Delo Group_

Destroyed sixteen enemy vehicles with a Carl Gustaf recoilless rifle during the invasion of Hong Kong.

_Sauer  
1L gosta  
Machine gunner, Eto Delo Group_

A leader among the gosta, together with Richardson. Combines a natural tomboyishness with a talent for crossdressing in her attempts to win the affection of Camilla Laforey.

_Schuhart, Roland ("Edsel Higgins")  
3L American male  
Arms dealer; director of Eto Delo Group_

A scarred cynic with a few soft spots hidden under his abrasive persona. Values his employees more than his profits. An old friend of Kang Li, Nereus and Daemon. A grudging agent of MJ-12.

_Semyon (d. 3/17/2016)  
3L Russian male  
Driver, Eto Delo Group_

Killed by an Arume airborne nanomachine weapon at Lion Rock Tunnel.

_Shen (d. 2004)  
3L Chinese male  
Corporal, People's Liberation Army Ground Force_

Bai's second in command during the siege of Angkor. Died on the last day of the siege.

_Shinano Haruna (b. 3/21/1978)  
3L Japanese female  
Colonel, Japan Strategic Self Defense Force (joined JGSDF 2001, transferred to JSSDF 2003)_

A cold, intimidating officer. One of the leaders of the SSDF's attack on Nerv headquarters in 2015. Now cooperating with Nerv to prevent Evangelion proliferation.

_Shinano Itsuki ("Wakamiya Kamikaze")  
3L Japanese male  
Mute kendoist; estranged son of Shinano Haruna_

Shunted off to relatives by his mother at an early age. Neglected and eventually abandoned, was taken in by Wakamiya Hideo. Aphasic due to a head injury. Indifferent to his mother's attempts to reconcile.

_Shivariel (d. 1999)  
1L Arume  
Master Commander, Arume Navy (ACS _Novaal_ 1990-1999)_

Leaders of the Arume Fifth Fleet's extended reconnaissance mission in the second layer. Sabotaged one of her own ships in a secret test of an experimental weapon, causing the Kamiokijima incident.

_Singh  
3L Indian male  
Tank commander, Sholay Defence Company_

A former tanker with the Indian Army, fought in Kashmir and Uzbekistan.

_Smith, Gordon  
2L American male  
Arms designer_

Creator of the XM18 rifle used by Arume collaborators.

_Soryu, Asuka Langley  
3L German-Japanese-American female  
Former Evangelion pilot; actress_

Returned to Germany shortly after Third Impact. Maintains sporadic contact with Shinji.

_Spiegel (d. 3/17/2016)  
1L Arume  
Commander, Arume Navy (Second Fleet Land Operations Battalion)_

The most senior officer on the ground in Hong Kong when Benacirael died. Backed an attempt to seize the lost gosta from Eto Delo. Killed by Roland Schuhart when Rule 303 went into effect.

_Streeton, John ("Dingo Breath")  
3L Australian male  
Colonel, Australian Army (commander of 1 RAR 2006-2009)_

Phil Darwin's commander in Liberia. Worked alongside PLA troops under then-Major Kang Li.

_Sugawara Yuko  
2L Japanese female  
Schoolteacher; intelligence agent_

Monitored Wakatake Mari under the guise of a teacher at Kaiou Academy. Helped Mari escape from Japan after the invasion. Whereabouts unknown.

_Sugiyama Kenzou  
2L Japanese male(?)  
Friend of Yanami Shouta; victim of Arume experimentation_

Razael 'converted' him into a female by uploading his mind into an Arume body. The original body was destroyed and Kenzou's personality ultimately merged with the Arume's. Living under the protection of Mariel and Yoshimura.

_Suzuhara Touji  
3L Japanese male  
Former Evangelion pilot; friend of Ikari Shinji_

Quit Nerv to pursue an athletic vocation.

_Sven (d. 4/11/2016)  
2L Swedish male  
Submachine gunner, Free European Sweden Corps_

Friend of the second layer Phil Darwin. Previous owner of the allegedly jinxed submachine gun which Mari gave to Michael MacFarlane.

_Tachibana Abe  
3L Japanese male  
Lieutenant, Japan Strategic Self Defense Force_

Took part in the SSDF's attack on Nerv as a sergeant. Shinano Haruna's confidant.

_Tang (d. 2004)  
3L Chinese male  
Private, People's Liberation Army Ground Force_

Took part in the siege of Angkor.

_Tsubael  
1L Arume  
Navigator, Arume Navy (ACS _Blue_ 1991-1999); software engineer_

The only Arume survivor of Shivariel's sabotage other than Ekaril, whom she idolized. Single-handedly kept _Blue_ operational during her commander's long absences. Settled down with Kouzuki Michiko after the invasion.

_Upadhyay, Patrick  
3L Irish-Indian male  
Historian_

Editor of a compilation of wartime news articles.

_Vickers  
1L gosta  
Rifleman, Eto Delo Group_

A member of the second squad.

_Vinogradov, Arkady Dazdrapertrakovich  
3L Russian male  
Captain, Russian Navy (retired 2004); captain of _TK-202_, Eto Delo Group_

Commands an aging missile sub used by Eto Delo to ferry cargo. Oversaw the sinking of the Arume carrier _Defiant Fragaria_ using a nuclear depth charge.

_Vitaly  
3L Russian male  
Traveling agent, Eto Delo Group_

Schuhart's sometime bodyguard when away from Hong Kong. Prefers brute strength over firearms.

_Vyacheslav (d. 3/17/2016)  
3L Russian male  
Motor pool mechanic, Eto Delo Group_

Helped Nereus repair Eto Delo's SdKfz 251 half-track. Died at Lion Rock Tunnel.

_Wakamiya Hideo  
3L Japanese male  
Priest_

Lived in the ruins of old Tokyo after Second Impact. Joined the refugees from the Limited-Intervention Zone when they relocated to Tokyo-3. A surrogate father to Shinano Itsuki.

_Wakatake Mari ("Marjatta Tikkanen", "Sawakaze Mariko")  
2L Japanese female  
Kaiou alumnus; lover of Ekaril; sniper, Free European Foreign Volunteers (2007-2016); sniper, Eto Delo Group (2016- )_

The only Terran survivor of the incident which wiped out the residents of Kamiokijima in 1994. Developed telepathic abilities, for which she was targeted by Shivariel. Met and fell in love with Ekaril at Kaiou Academy. Was smuggled out of Japan to escape the Arume. Settled in Finland and joined the Free European Forces there. Taken to the third layer by Yui after the Arume attempted to kill her in Rovaniemi.

_Webley  
1L gosta  
Rifleman, Eto Delo Group_

A member of first squad. Proposed to Keiko, but was turned down.

_Weisheng Ying  
3L Chinese female  
Communist Party of China's Provincial Committee Secretary for Hainan (2013-2016); Governor of Hainan for Sino-Arumic Liaison (2016- )_

Assumed responsibility for the island of Hainan following the collapse of the central government, giving her de facto control of much of the Chinese navy. Joined the Sino-Arumic Liaison despite her personal mistrust of Kang Li.

_Yanami Shouta  
2L Japanese male  
Journalist_

Formerly an apathetic youth who narrowly escaped one of Razael's experiments. As a reporter, he became one of the first second layer civilians allowed to visit the third layer.

_Yelena (d. 4/12/2016)  
2L Russian female  
Sniper, Free European Russia Corps_

A sharpshooter with a fondness for incendiary ammunition. Killed by the Arume gunship in Rovaniemi.

_Yoshimura Seiichi  
2L Japanese male  
Leader of anti-Arume resistance until 2009_

A perverted smartass, secretly in league with Mariel during the latter part of his career. Disbanding the Japanese resistance earned him a position in the occupation government's middle management.

_Yui ("Majestic-2")  
1L Arume(?)  
Member of anti-imperialist faction_

Brought Mari to the third layer. Identity and true motives unknown.

_Yuukanael ("Yvonne")  
1L Arume  
Navigator, Arume Navy (ACS _Narwhal_); member of commando unit_

A quiet and thoughtful Arume. A survivor of first contact with the third layer.

_Zeldenthuis, Willem  
3L Dutch male  
Prime Minister of the Netherlands_

A frequently traveling politician. Was in the Tokyo-2 convention center when the North Koreans attacked.

_Zheng Mei  
3L Chinese female  
Daughter of Zheng Wu; former love interest of Kang Li_

A bubbly young woman, target of several kidnapping attempts. Formerly protected by Kang Li. Married a Chinese man of no distinction.

_Zheng Wu  
3L Chinese male  
Chinese ambassador to Japan_

Pompous and ostentatious. Nicknamed 'Zheng Tzu' by the western press. Reluctantly retained by the Sino-Arumic Liaison.

_Zhenyuan, Harold  
3L Chinese male  
Chief Inspector, Hong Kong Police_

A man nearing the end of his tether. In a Shenzhen hospital since the bombing of Hong Kong.

_Zhu  
3L Chinese female  
Interpreter, Chinese diplomatic service_

Translated for Renaril and Zheng Wu during their first meeting.

_Zhui, Huey (d. 3/5/2016)  
3L Chinese male  
Gangster_

Ran a crime ring in California. Killed when he came back to Hong Kong to recover his slain brother's assets.

_Zhui, Samuel (d. 1/1/2016)  
3L Chinese male  
Gangster_

Operated a smuggling network in Hong Kong, transporting drugs into China and weapons out. Assassinated along with most of his gang.

_Zozulya, Anton Sergeyevich ("Woodpecker")  
3L Russian male  
Major, Russian Airborne Troops (discharged 2007); commander of Hong Kong security teams, Eto Delo Group_

Veteran paratrooper and top underling of Roland Schuhart. Lost three fingers and a foot while leading troops in the defense of Hong Kong against Benacirael, forcing him to take an extended leave of absence.


	35. Interlude I: The Last Will and Testament

_Interlude I: The Last Will and Testament of Senkouji Hagino_

_VDNKh Metro Station, Ostankino District  
Moscow, Occupied Russia  
Second Universal Layer_

It had been a cold spring, and today was even colder than usual. Pyotr kept his raggedy jacket wrapped tightly around himself as he made his short walk to the Metro entrance. If he looked behind himself now, he'd see the sweeping spire of the Monument to the Conquerors of Space and, further away, the knobby spike of the Ostankino Tower as dark silhouettes against the afternoon sky. Pyotr didn't look back, though – there was nothing new to see, not for a man who'd been coming here since he was old enough to walk. A gust of wind ruffled his thinning hair, and then he was inside the station.

No one troubled him as he melted into the thin crowd, becoming part of the masses flowing under arched white ceilings and long lines of hanging light fixtures. The workers knew him down here, in one of the deepest terminals in the Moscow underground. They knew that, on a certain hour of every day, Pyotr put away his janitor's coveralls, signed out of the Memorial Museum of Cosmonautics and boarded the orange line train running south.

They knew him, but they didn't _know_ him. Pyotr Timofeyevich Kuznetsov – a nice generic name to go with his nice generic face. He was neither tall nor short, neither fat nor thin, neither young nor old. Brown hair, brown eyes, no distinguishing scars or other marks. They knew him at VDNKh, but his was a comfortably forgettable persona everywhere else in the city... and that was just how he liked it.

Pyotr's work shift ended a solid hour before the afternoon rush, and his usual car was nearly empty. Only a handful of people had gotten on the southbound train already, at Sviblovo or Botanicheskiy Sad, and only a few more boarded at Alekseyevskaya – a mere echo of the volume this system once accepted. A mother and her two children got on at Rizhskaya, sitting directly across from Pyotr. He knew them and yet didn't know them: the woman was a clerical worker who had lost her husband and remarried after the war. Her elder daughter must have been born right around the time the invasion started. The other looked about ten years old: she strongly resembled her mother, but her eyes and hair were the blue and white of the alien occupiers.

There was a time when that kind of sight would have infuriated Pyotr, but he'd learned to keep it to himself. Ignoring the family, he let his eyes wander over the posters and broadsides spread along the carriage walls. His better-educated friends thought it an amusing irony that the Arume, who smugly looked down on their subjects' cultures, had so eagerly taken to the socialist realism school of art. It wasn't just about the propaganda value – they actually _liked_ that old shit. Pyotr was never a great appreciator of the arts, but the idea made sense to him. It was the Arume, after all, who had done what Gennadiy Yanayev and his cohorts failed to achieve in August '91: turned back the clock and made Moscow look like it was once more the capital of the Union of Soviet Socialist fucking Republics.

At Prospekt Mira, a familiar face transferred off of the brown line from Novoslobodskaya: Sidor Baryshev, a balding apparatchik with a significant paunch. "Afternoon, Petya," he grunted, easing into the seat immediately to Pyotr's right. "Rolling home?"

"Yeah."

"How's work?"

"Same as always." Pyotr stretched his arms in front of himself. "No excitement today."

"Mm." Sidor sat in silence while the train stopped at Sukharevskaya. "Ivan's whiskers are getting long," he said as it lurched back into motion.

On that remark, the conversation split into an entangled word-meaning duality. "What's he going to do with them?" asked Pyotr. _What's the job?_

"Trim 'em back, probably." _A courier delivery._ "You know he can never make up his mind... Anyway, have you visited Mariya lately?" _Can you take it to Krylatskoye?_

"Not in a while." _I can._ "What about her?"

"Here." Sidor delved into one of his coat pockets and took out a pack of cigarettes – Bluebells, one of the high quality, officially sanctioned brands. The Arume frowned on smoking among their own kind, but they understood the value in controlling supply of a high-demand commodity. "A little bonus from work." _This is the package._ "I'm trying to quit, you know, so I thought she might like them." _I can't make the drop myself._

Pyotr accepted the pack. "They don't mind if you give these away?" _Are the enemy looking for this?_

Sidor waved his hand. "It's fine." _They don't know about it._ "Just make sure Mariya's boy doesn't steal them." _It's for Herr G._ "And don't you let them get squashed, either." _It's a priority job._

Pyotr pocketed the cigarettes. "When have I ever squashed them?" _Not a problem._ "I'll tell her you miss her cooking." _Anything else?_

"Please do." _That's it._

* * *

Sidor got off at Oktyabrskaya and the family of three debarked at Leninskiy Prospekt, leaving Pyotr alone with his thoughts for the last leg of his ride. _A delivery direct to Herr G, is it?_

The actual package was an Arume flash memory card, hidden in the bottom of the cigarette pack. He'd delivered many others like it, but it was a task of rare importance indeed which required him to go all the way out to Krylatskoye. Pyotr was still mulling over this when the train slowed and tiled walls of blue-striped white appeared outside the windows: Akademicheskaya, his stop. Leaving the train, he emerged onto Ho Chi Minh Square and crossed it, heading southwards along Profsoyuznaya Street.

Pyotr lived, together with a few hundred other Muscovites, in the lower floors of a building on the east side of the street which had once housed shoe and textile expositions. The makeshift accommodations were adequate for a single man with no dependents, and the neighbors had worries enough of their own such that they added none to his... Worries like keeping out the cold, feeding the kids, and fending off the skinhead gang from the travel agency over on Babushkin Street. The punks had a cozy quid pro quo arrangement with the Arume: their depredations kept the proles downtrodden and disorganized, and in return the authorities only laxly enforced their anti-vagrancy ordinances.

There were no skinheads on the street today, though – nor any gopniks, whom Pyotr detested equally. Unfortunately, this was most likely due to the two Arume public order officers who were slowly coming up the street towards him, unmistakable in their white tights and boots and blue-trimmed pullover tops which reached down to mid-thigh. _Here to remind us just who is in charge,_ the man thought sourly. These were the aliens one really had to watch out for, with their roving eyes hidden behind tinted wraparound visors and their hands never far from their guns. Pyotr had been walking by when a couple of them shot a stray dog, one chilly morning a few months back: you didn't need a vivid imagination to work out what that firepower would do to a human body.

He walked with his eyes fixed on the sidewalk in front of him, looking neither left nor right. Better not draw their attention, especially if they were feeling aggravated or – even worse – bored. Out here, in a borderline slum far from the brothels and other amenities of the occupation's stronghold in northern Moscow, the Arume were often cranky. Being stopped would mean trouble even if Pyotr hadn't been carrying any incriminating articles, because Pyotr had been in the camps and anyone who had been in the camps was automatically suspect.

The string of undecipherable glyphs burned onto the skin of his bicep still hadn't faded, eight years after they let him out. The stigma of being a POW hadn't faded, either. Pyotr couldn't remember how long it was since he'd last gone out in short sleeves... And it was their fault, it was all _their_ fault. _Them_ with their living bombs and their brainwave weapons and their huge spaceships. His hands curled into fists inside the pockets of his jacket as he passed the public order pair.

"...Stop!"

_Godfuckingdammit._

Pyotr stopped and looked back over his shoulder. It was him they were talking to, all right, and one already had a hand on her sidearm. "Where are you going, citizen?"

Her command of Russian was pretty good, 'pretty good' meaning that Pyotr could understand more than every other word of it. "I'm going home," he answered, waving towards the next building on the left.

"Home?" The other one had already circled around to his front, trapping him between the two. "So well dressed, and yet you live in that _hovel?"_

Pyotr wanted to say something clever, but checked himself. _Don't get angry. Things go wrong when you get angry._ "Is there a problem?"

"We will see," the first Arume replied coolly.

Pyotr now saw that each of them carried a knife with a single-edged straight blade about twelve centimeters long, in addition to the standard pistol. Everybody knew the stories about what they did with those knives. "I've lived here for six years," he sighed. "It's all on the record... Look, you can check my ID – "

"Not here," the first one interrupted with a thin smirk. "No need to... make a disturbance." She motioned towards the far side of the street, twin pigtails bobbing. "We'll do it over there."

So that was it. They didn't actually suspect him of anything, but had merely seized upon him as an easy target for their amusement. He knew perfectly well how this game worked: you could play along with it and hope you still had your balls when it was over, or you could refuse and be dragged off to Lubyanka Square for 'subversion' – and then they would slice you up at their leisure.

The only way to win was to not play, and Pyotr had a winning hand for that. "Sure," he sighed, feigning ignorance of the aliens' intentions. "Whatever you want."

The Arume maintained their formation – one in front, one in back – as they led him across the road, over the central divider with its sickly trees, and then across the southbound lane. A bomber had crash-landed on the west side of the street during the invasion, wrecking the small buildings and razing the trees there. The stripped remains of its wings and fuselage were piled up at the corner where Profsoyuznaya intersected with Kedrov Street, and the great furrow of destruction it plowed had become a sort of neighborhood junkyard, a dumping ground for broken glass, splintered plywood and other refuse pulled from the surrounding buildings.

Pyotr could glimpse the Tupolev's silvery rudder, scarred yet still standing proud, as he walked between the garbage piles. The red star on it was weathered, but not worn away – a fitting reminder of his once-proud country's condition. Then it fell behind him, and he passed into the long shadow cast by the former offices of the Union for Chemical Safety. "Stop," the Arume in front commanded. "This will do."

_Sure,_ Pyotr thought darkly. "I have my identification right here," he said, trying to look cooperative as he unzipped his jacket partway.

The alien pretty obviously didn't give a damn about his identification, but she kept up her own pretense of proper procedure. "Show it."

"Yes, yes." Pyotr reached inside, not for his wallet but for the hard lump tucked under his armpit. In a quick motion, he slid his fingers around the backstrap, pressed the pad of his thumb against the trigger and raised his left arm away from his side.

_Pakka!_

He didn't wait to see if the shot hit its mark, but attacked immediately. His free hand shot out and wrapped around the Arume's soft throat, choking off her cry of alarm as he lifted her off the ground. Pyotr lunged forwards, carrying her high, and with a furious effort slammed her down onto a length of rusted wrought-iron fence which jutted not quite vertically from the junk heap at her back. The alien's body jerked as the pointed tip of one of the uprights punched through the base of her skull, then went limp.

Pyotr spun away, leaving her dangling there, and went for the other one. His bullet had struck close to the navel and penetrated at a sharp angle, lodging itself somewhere in the back of her pelvis: if he'd used a Tokarev, it would have drilled her a new asshole in the bargain. She was trying to crawl towards her pistol, which she'd dropped upon being shot. Her visor had also fallen off, revealing wide, frightened eyes.

He would have loved to drag her away, to cut her with her own blade and make her experience what she would have gleefully done to him for the sake of a few minutes' entertainment, but there wasn't time enough for revenge. Pyotr picked her up, ignoring the flailing hands which clawed at his sleeve, and spiked her brain on the fence beside the first Arume. Time to clean up and clear out: he checked his back, making sure he was really alone. One gunshot, muffled by the jacket, could be easily missed among the other noises of the city, but he couldn't take that for granted – and in any case, the public order office would soon notice that two of its members had gone offline. He didn't have much time left to finish his delivery.

_First things first,_ he told himself, and pulled out his lifesaver: a former police piece, rescued from Germany as the old government fell, with edges worn white from years in a duty holster. Just now it had jammed itself trying to eject a fired casing inside his jacket, but Pyotr couldn't fault it for something it was never meant to do in the first place. He nimbly cleared the malfunction, pocketed the dented brass cylinder and put the SIG-Sauer back in its hideaway. Then he set off, circling around to the north rather than simply retracting his steps. He needed to grab a few things from his lodging before he left, because chances were that he wouldn't be coming back after this.

Time to take the plunge and join D6 full-time.

* * *

He stopped at his so-called apartment only for a few minutes – just long enough to change out of the scorched and perforated jacket, pack up a few essential things and burn some papers which weren't really incriminating but weren't worth taking a risk on. The few cohabitants who saw him, if questioned, could only say that they last saw Pyotr Kuznetsov leaving the building in his winter coat, carrying a black nylon laptop bag. Since he often went out after coming home from work, they might not take note of his departure at all.

This was going to be a bitter night, so the heavier coat shouldn't draw suspicion by itself. The bag contained more or less everything of any value which Pyotr still owned: a handful of personal effects, including a blunt razor, a gap-toothed comb and a couple of worthless medals, along with his two and a half least threadbare sets of clothes. The bag also concealed the Heckler & Koch P8 he'd been keeping in a hole in the wall in case of night raids, loaded with armor-piercing rounds which were too hot for the P6 and cost him more than both the pistols together. He would have preferred something with even more punch for this kind of run, like an SR-3 or 9A-91, but a mere courier couldn't get such fancy toys.

It seemed that the alarm had not yet been sounded, and he was for the moment safe. Pyotr went back to Akademicheskaya, taking the northbound train this time. To get to Krylatskoye, on the west side of the city, he first needed to ride the orange line back to Oktyabyskaya and transfer to the brown line. At Kiyevskaya, he would jump over to the blue line for the last leg of the trip. He expected the hardest part to come at Kiyevskaya, where the security presence was heavier. Those guards were more concerned with the adjacent railway terminal, on the lookout for would-be terrorists coming in from other occupied territories, but they'd just as soon go after him if an alert were issued.

As the train rattled and banged towards Shabolovskaya, Pyotr's mind turned to Mariya and the wisdom of his cover story being a true story. She was a first cousin on his mother's side, a little younger than himself, and a single parent with a son just entering his teens. They lived in the ex-Microsoft Russia offices, a little ways northeast of Krylatskoye Station, but both spent their days nearer the center of Moscow. The boy attended school with diligence, and it was his mother's hope that he would grow up to be an integral part of whatever society ultimately rose from the ruins.

Mariya herself was employed at an Arume street a few minutes' walk from the Kremlin, shedding clothes and grinding against a steel pole under a spotlight in a dark room. When the bids went high enough, she withdrew to a secluded backroom and gave private performances. She was pretty, skilled with her tongue and well educated, traits which meant she had it good for a sex worker. She attracted the ideal clientele – Arume who were respectful and left generous tips, some of them so enamored that they would pay to have her to themselves for an entire afternoon.

He put this train of thought on hold while he switched trains of the Metro. Still no overt signs of alarm in the overseers' machinery: his luck was holding fast.

In Pyotr's admittedly vulgar estimation, Mariya rubbed cunts with more intelligentsiya in a week than he passed on his daily commute in a year. He resented that she'd embraced the new order, but he'd given up arguing about it a long time ago. At least she was using the money to secure young Lyova's future, which was worthy enough a cause for her cousin. Too bad this afternoon's clusterfuck meant he wouldn't be seeing her for a long while: she wasn't involved with D6 and hopefully still had no idea that Pyotr was. The best way to keep her safe from reprisals was to keep her in the dark, he'd convinced himself.

He had plenty of time to second-guess that choice on the way to Kiyevskaya.

* * *

They'd found the bodies, but weren't sure who was to blame – that was Pyotr's assessment after watching the security personnel when he got off the brown line. The assholes had good reason to be jumpy: among the myriad collaborators who enabled the Arume regime, the Metro guards were one of the most visible castes. Right now every man in that uniform would be thinking the same thing: _Am I next?_

It was a sore temptation. If Pyotr pulled out the P8 in here, most of them would die before they could unbutton their holsters... But that would put scores of civilian bystanders at risk, not to mention Kiyevskaya's ornate and irreplaceable decorations. Besides, D6 was a professional outfit and wanton acts of terror only hurt its cause. These small fish would get what they deserved when the _real_ terror started, he reassured himself as he ascended on the escalator, just like the rest.

The thought was fresh in his mind as he came to the next hurdle, a checkpoint between the brown line and blue line areas. There were always at least two guards posted in these places, one of them always within reach of the alarm button. It was one of the few modifications installed by the invaders, together with a series of barred gates that would slam into place and isolate each part of Kiyevskaya from its neighbors once the alarm was tripped. It was all very precise and effective, but the weakest link in its chain was still the human one.

Pyotr quickly sized them up, evaluating their standing within the byzantine hierarchy. Most of these guys didn't wear name tags or badges of formal rank, but there were other ways to tell – whether or not they were getting extra food, whether or not they had smokes, things like that. Pyotr particularly paid attention to the grade of heat they were packing, a good indicator of how far the Arume trusted them. The bottom-tier Metro guards were issued a big stick and an 1895-pattern Nagant: seven warning shots and one aimed throw, in the pithy words of an expatriate Bundeswehr veteran. Loyalty was rewarded by gradual upgrades of firepower, first to newer .380 or 9x18 revolvers with moon clips, and then on to compact automatics.

The one guarding the panic button had a Makarov on his hip. He'd served for a while but without distinction, Pyotr guessed. The other one, slouching on the bench set against the opposite wall, was a different story: he had done something meritorious enough to earn himself a beat-to-hell assault rifle, a Kalashnikov too worn out to be issued by the occupiers' puppet army or the Moscow OMON – or to be stolen by D6. The imperfection of his masters' trust in him was reinforced by the allocation of only a single magazine. It probably wasn't even completely loaded – one third full, one half at most.

Mak on the left, Kalash on the right, and Pyotr had to walk through the middle. He started forwards, keeping his eyes on the floor... and then Kalash wiggled the polished toe of his boot.

_Bzzzzzzzzt!_

The gate just beyond the two guards dropped into place with a jarring clang, but the general alarm remained silent. Kalash stood up, lazily hip-aiming the AK-74 in Pyotr's direction with a loose, sloppy stance. Typical for the grade of shit permitted by the new regime, the traveler thought with disgust. Now that he saw the man's face more clearly, he realized he'd overestimated Kalash's age: this one must have been in elementary school when Pyotr was in uniform, and was definitely too young to remember much of the Yeltsin years. Either he'd been promoted for something truly exceptional, or else he'd gotten a head start on collaborating. Maybe he had informed on his peers, or even his parents? Others had been caught – and shot – by D6 for doing exactly that.

"What's that lump in your pocket, citizen?"

The collaborators played the same game as their Arume counterparts... Or rather, they put the same spin on the game their predecessors were playing back in the '90s: identify an easy mark, think up an excuse to make a stop and shake him down for a bribe, or bust him for disobedience if he wouldn't cooperate. The aliens did nothing to prevent it, for the same reason that they didn't act to curtail the skinheads or the abuses of power by their own kind.

"A pack of cigarettes," Pyotr replied, slowly pulling out the Bluebells. "See?"

The way Kalash's eyes fixed on them immediately told him that wasn't such a smart move. He shouldn't have assumed the man would only be interested in his money. "Expensive goods, citizen. What are you doing with them?"

"Present for my cousin." Other commuters were starting to pile up behind him, watching warily from a distance. "She'll kick my ass if I show up empty-handed again."

"Where is this cousin, citizen?"

"She works on Nikolskaya Street. Try calling – "

"A likely story." Kalash wanted those smokes, wasn't going along with anything that involved calling in the Arume, and was plainly aggravated at being outmaneuvered. "Your papers, citizen!"

"Papers, sure." Pyotr reached into his coat, meeting the guard's piggy eyes dead on. "I've got – "

_Kaboom!_

The floor shook under his feet. The lights flickered, dimmed for a second, then returned to full brilliance. Somewhere behind him, a woman screamed.

"What the fuck..?" Kalash hustled over to the kiosk occupied by Mak. "Where was that?"

Mak waved him off with his free hand, pressing one half of a broken set of headphones to his ear with the other. The color was steadily draining out of his face. "Oh no..."

_"Attention, citizens, attention... There has been an incident in Kiyevskiy Terminal... All citizens are advised to evacuate the terminal and underlying Metro stations using the nearest exit... Report any persons behaving suspiciously to the nearest public safety officer... Remember, citizens: security comes through unity..."_

Mak thumbed an unseen button, raising the barrier as the public address broadcast repeated. "This way, citizens!" he called over the murmurs of growing panic behind Pyotr. "Please keep calm and do not rush!"

The crowd surged forwards, carrying Pyotr with it into the next hall where another current of humanity was already streaming towards the same exit from a different part of the complex. As he followed their lead to the stairs, a figure in a long black coat stumbled into his path, hands fumbling with something in front of herself.

"Allahu ak – "

_Pakka!_

She pitched forwards, landing facedown on the lowest steps. The surrounding civilians pressed themselves against the walls or sank to the floor, crying out in alarm as Pyotr advanced, aimed at the back of her head and pulled the trigger until the slide locked back. No such thing as a one-shot stop when dealing with suicide bombers. He could hear Kalash yelling at him in the background, ordering him to drop the gun and all the other procedural bullshit, but he had no more time to humor that clown.

The dead girl was a 'martyr widow' who couldn't have been more than sixteen. She was probably quite a looker too, before Pyotr pumped seven FMJs into her skull. He gingerly pried the electrical switch from her hand and turned the corpse over, leaving dark blood smears all over the steps. From the front, she looked about six months pregnant – pregnant, he knew even before he tore away her clothes, with a softball sized lump of Semtex studded with rusty nails. The payload was a simple one, a single-circuit design with no redundancies. He took a few moments to check it for booby traps and, finding none, ripped the soldered leads off the battery pack, then placed the little plastic box on his other side. Leaving nothing to chance, he yanked the cylindrical detonators out of the orange mass of plastic explosive and tossed those as well.

"The bomb is disarmed. Keep moving, citizens!"

The authority in his voice and the seeming expertise with which he disassembled the IED convinced them to obey. Good thing, too – he'd just about used up all his leeway, as well as half of his affordable ammo.

"Hey!" Kalash yelled as the interloper scampered up the stairs. "Where the fuck are you going?"

Pyotr rolled his eyes and slammed the other full magazine into the SIG. _I'm going to call a fucking taxi._

* * *

"You did a good job."

"Could have been better."

"Of course." Dmitriy Blinov took a drag on one of the Bluebells. "But you know, Fifteen, it's not every day that one of our men has to deal with two gop-stops and a Chechen attack in one afternoon."

D6 didn't use code names, the way they did in the movies. Its members were identified by GRAU indices, cryptic alphanumeric strings taken from the Soviet master catalog of military equipment. Pyotr was 8K15. Blinov, his handler for most of his time in D6, was 9P117.

"I'd like to think my adventure in Kiyevskaya counted for something." Pyotr hunched forwards on his cushioned crate and picked up the P6's barrel off the drywall top of the improvised table. "'But I know the Arume will think differently.'"

"Indeed." Blinov ground out the stub of the cigarette in an ashtray made from an ammo can lid. "You're sure this is what you want, Fifteen?"

"They'll know it was me." Taking a wire brush in his other hand, Pyotr commenced scrubbing. "All they have to do is compare the bullets. Either I get out of Moscow, or I stay underground."

"And you'd rather stay underground," Blinov concluded. "You know there's a quarantine period, right?"

"I know." Pyotr looked up at the roof of the tunnel high over his head. "There's just one thing – "

"It's Mariya, right? We'll keep an eye out for reprisals."

"I'd appreciate that... I mean, I know she's popular with the aliens – "

A door in the tunnel wall, originally built for maintenance access, opened with a bang. Out of it came Herr G, D6 member 11F638. Nobody knew his real name, just that he was another German who'd come to Russia after the defeat, a pro computer hacker who trimmed his hair with electric clippers and decorated his workspace, here in the never-finished extension north of Krylatskoye, with pornographic posters stolen by infiltrators raiding the Arume streets. He was a regular customer for Pyotr's deliveries, and the way his eyes glinted behind his cracked glasses told the Russian today's job was really something special.

"You need to see this," he announced in his characteristic accent. "You both."

Pyotr and Blinov exchanged a look: Herr G didn't invite just anybody into his domain. "Sure," said Blinov, brushing ashes off his pants as he stood up.

* * *

The nerve center was a room lined with shelves stacked floor to ceiling with computers, fans and rainbow bundles of cables. Monitors placed here and there displayed the output of programs written to solve problems far beyond Pyotr's level of comprehension, great secrets flashing by as the aging CRTs flickered in the dark. In the middle of the room was Herr G's test box, a grimy UltraSPARC II which was kept physically isolated from all networks. He used it to check incoming media for unwanted surprises – keyloggers, BIOS burners, any other fun things the collaborators' tech division might think up.

"Here it is," said Herr G, humming the _Intel Inside_ jingle as he rolled his balding office chair off to the side and plunked himself down in it. One keystroke, and the open window expanded. Another keystroke and the video file started to play: the test box's screen was filled with an image of an Arume in a naval uniform with cape and cap, long black hair falling over her shoulders. As she looked into the camera and began to speak, giving what was obviously a carefully prepared performance, subtitles in Russian appeared at the bottom.

Pyotr witnessed the playback with growing bewilderment. "So..."

Blinov nodded. "Yes."

"Uh..."

"Quite."

Pyotr pinched the bridge of his nose. "...What the fuck did I just watch?"

"It was sent to us by another resistance group," Herr G volunteered, already rolling away to check on a wheezing Power Macintosh. "That's all there was."

"And what are we supposed... wait." The courier's brow furrowed. Herr G was an important asset to D6 for many reasons, but one feat in particular had made him a legend in the underground. "They want us to broadcast it? From Ostankino?"

"On all channels," the German confirmed, evidently pleased at his intuition. "The date and time will come later."

"Can you do that?"

Herr G grinned. The Mac made a soft _daaaaa_ noise.

"Huh..." Pyotr didn't understand most of what the Arume in the video had been talking about, 'Ekaril' or whatever she called herself, but it wasn't aimed at the people of Moscow. In fact, those words of condemnation seemed to be aimed at her own race, something he'd never seen before. The aliens she singled out, that 'Shivariel' and the others – were they officials in the occupation? Architects of the invasion? Whoever they were, the intent was definitely to shake up their cozy little world. That suited Pyotr just fine, so long as it contributed to D6's ultimate goal.

In pre-invasion lore, 'D6' was the alleged KGB code for a second, highly secret subway system built to evacuate the Soviet government from Moscow in the event of the Cold War going hot. When the truth came to light, as the dust settled after the exploding girls ceased to descend, it turned out to be rather less exciting than some had imagined. The legend lived on, however, and gave its name to an underground army. The new D6 was born in the labor camps which the Arume had opened in an attempt to keep captured soldiers from vanishing into the civilian populace and organizing an insurgency.

They direly underestimated their prisoners' patience. Now thousands of men and women labored under the very noses of the occupiers, stockpiling arms, gathering intelligence and preparing for the day when they would come back into the light and take back the city... The day when the aliens would hang from every branch of every tree in Izmaylovskiy Park and Red Square would be painted white with their blood. It was going to be fucking _epic_ and Pyotr was determined to be there when it happened.

The thought almost made him grin. Shaking off the premature euphoria, he looked to see whether the others had noticed. Herr G was busy rummaging through a box of CD-Rs, looking for something that wasn't a pirated Copland beta or a copy of Windows NT. Blinov was starting pensively at the image frozen on the screen, the program still showing the last frame of the video... Not the image itself, Pyotr realized after a moment, but the ghostly subtitle of Ekaril's final words.

_I will return._


	36. Waldo World Waltz

(This chapter concludes the December batch update, and could also count as a slightly late New Year special. Thanks again to everyone who has supported this project, which is now coming up on its second birthday.)

_Part 31: Waldo World Waltz_

_Blue Sea Dormitory, Kaiou Academy  
Japan, Second Universal Layer  
1999_

"Shh!"

The answering giggle was no quieter than before, nor any more refined and elegant.

"If you don't stop," Mari whispered fiercely, "Micchi or the dorm chief will catch us!"

Hagino showed no inclination to heed the warning. She merely spurred Mari on, gently prodding the back of the latter's dripping shirt as the pair tiptoed along the dark hallway. "I'm sure they will understand," the alien replied mirthfully. "But if you catch a cold like this, we shall _really_ be in trouble."

"Mm." It was true, any illness now would put the brakes on Michiko's long-awaited play. Coming to the door of their shared room, Mari eased it open and looked inside furtively. Having Tsubael floating over her when she woke up was bad enough...

"She went back to the ship," Hagino supplied, walking in without concern. "Let's hurry and change."

"Yeah..."

Neither of them bothered to turn on the lights: with their eyes adjusted to the darkness, the dim moonlight filtering in through the window was ample. Mari pulled off her shoes, padded over to her bed and began to peel off her sodden garments one by one. In hindsight, shoving Hagino into the pool – never mind diving in after her – had not been the smartest way to make up, even if it earned her such a thrilling result. How many girls' first kisses left an aftertaste of chlorine?

"Mari-san..?"

"Huh?" Mari looked down, realizing she'd spaced out with her skirt halfway off. Shaking it loose, she removed the rest of her school uniform in a flustered rush and piled it on her chair. She was on the way to retrieving her pajamas when she realized she couldn't hear anything on Hagino's side of the room... and she knew quite well that even the princess of Kaiou couldn't disrobe in perfect silence. Mari turned around to find Hagino sitting motionless on her own bed, wrapped in shadows. "What are you doing?"

"Watching you."

_Ba-dum!_

Mari hastily turned her back, unable to stop her heart from beginning to race. "Aren't you going to get dressed?"

"Yes, of course."

Mari's pajamas, the usual blue-green set, were in their proper place. She took them out and laid them over her blanket, along with replacement underwear. Pausing to listen to her environment, she again heard no trace of activity from her roommate. The knowledge that she was still being watched kept her pulse up and spurred the spreading flush in her cheeks. They had been together in this room from the beginning, seen each other night after night... but everything changed when they plunged into the water. "Say, Hagino..."

"Yes?"

Something had awakened in Mari, an unprecedented curiosity. "Don't you want to go... further?"

"Further?"

"Yeah... The stuff that comes next?"

"And what would that be?"

Mari didn't actually know – sheltered upbringing, all-girls school, et cetera. "Um... Going all the way?"

"Oh my," the nude Arume teased, stepping into the light. "You're always so bold, Mari-san... I hope you understand what you're asking."

"I'm not stupid," Mari retorted defensively. "I know there's more to this than kissing and holding hands!"

The alien girl drew closer, her pale skin fulfilling a time-honored trope by appearing to glow in the moonshine. "Are you sure?"

"If you don't want to," Mari huffed, fast losing her battle against the urge to stare at those pink little nipples, "put your clothes on already!"

"But I _do_ want to." Hagino wasn't teasing anymore. "I want to do so many things with you."

"Then..." Mari searched for a less intimate part of her newly-bonded girlfriend's body on which to focus, settling on the navel. Within moments, however, her gaze had wandered down to the hairless mound below and the cleft which started midway down its front and disappeared between Hagino's slightly parted legs. She couldn't rationally explain why she was suddenly so very interested in what lay down there. "Then let's do it!"

A look of determination came over Hagino's face as she stepped forward, lifting her hands. Mari tensed, remembering Hagino's impulse to strangle her at their first meeting, then relaxed slightly when those hands slid under her arms instead of around her neck. The fingers and palms felt clammy against the skin of her back, prompting a shiver.

If Tsubael popped back in now, she'd receive the shock of a lifetime.

For a long moment, human and alien looked into one another's eyes. Hagino had withdrawn the camouflaging pigment, leaving only the vivid blue which her classmates never saw. Moving so slowly as to be almost imperceptible, she closed the gap and pressed her lips against Mari's. Their second kiss tasted much better than the first.

Mari wanted more. She raised her own hands, tentatively placing one on Hagino's hip and easing the other around to the small of the alien's back. Hagino responded to this venture with a faint moan and deepened the kiss. A fresh thrill ran through Mari as a pair of bigger, softer breasts gently pressed against her own. "Nnn!"

After a minute, maybe a little more, Hagino withdrew. "I know you were looking at them when we went swimming," she murmured, smiling graciously. "Would you like to touch?"

Mari's blush trebled in intensity. "Can... can I?"

"Mm..." Hagino went in for another, fleeting kiss. "May I touch you as well, Mari-san?"

"Uh... Of course!" A nervous laugh escaped the schoolgirl's lips. She started to slide her hand up Hagino's flank, but a new sensation arrested her motion. She'd assumed her partner was seeking permission to explore her breasts, small and inflexible though they might be, but the Arume instead shifted her weight onto one leg. The smile became mischievous once more as she gracefully lifted the other until Mari was forced up onto the tips of her toes, straddling the alien's knee. "Ha – _Haginooooo..!"_

Hagino's smile turned into a hungry grin. Before Mari could wriggle away, she planted both hands on the girl's butt and pulled her forwards, sliding Mari's wet sex over her raised thigh until the brunette's nether region rested against her hip. "...Did you like that?"

"I... That..."

"You did." Hagino tightened her embrace and pushed off with her anchoring foot, causing both girls to fall onto Mari's bed with a satisfying _fwumph_. Mari yielded to the advance, spreading her legs obediently as Hagino rested herself on her knees and elbows. "Mari-san," she panted, a new urgency in her words, "tonight, please... let me have you."

Mari nodded eagerly, the good feelings overwhelming her. Hagino dropped in for the fourth kiss, upping the ante by slipping her tongue between Mari's lips. The girl on the bottom shuddered as roving fingertips wandered down the length of her sternum and onto her belly, creeping closer to –

_Beep-beep-beep-beep! Beep-beep-beep-beep! Beep-beep-beep-beep! Beep-beep-beep-beep!_

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaargh."

For a moment, Mari seriously considered picking up the alarm clock and hurling it at the far wall with every joule she could muster... but then she remembered the poor soundproofing in these rooms, a problem made doubly clear to her by her neighbors' noisy intercourse last night. She settled for a brutal smack, then rolled out of bed. Time to put the happy memories back on the shelf and get on with her lonely life.

* * *

_Girls' Dormitory, Eto Delo Headquarters  
Hong Kong, China  
April 28th, 2016_

Renaril was awakened by a distant beeping and a muffled _thunk_. She felt utterly enervated, had an astounding headache, and her bladder was close to maximum capacity. That last discomfort required attention most urgently, so the group commander climbed out of the unfamiliar bed and fumbled around in the dark until she found her uniform.

There was a rustle of sheets as she zipped it up. "Where're you going?"

Her mouth was very dry, too. "Bathroom..."

"Long end of the hall, last door on the right."

Renaril bolted, leaving her shoes behind.

* * *

It was born in Eskilstuna, three months after the death of Queen Victoria and not quite six more before the departure of the Swedish expedition to Antarctica. Its working parts were forged and milled from the land's native ores, fortified with nickel, copper and vanadium, and mated to a length of solid walnut carved and fitted with micrometer precision. It passed its proofing and inspection with flying colors, whereupon a man named Gibson indicated its acceptance by stamping his initials on it. It left the factory packed in a crate with nineteen others, sent out into the world to join their eighty-four thousand predecessors already in service.

The army which issued it had given its breed the uninspiring designation of _Gevär__ m/96_, but to others it was better known by the name of its architect – Mauser. By the standards of later times it was a work of art, a grotesquely ironic honor for an implement of war. War, however, was not soon in coming for this one. It was assigned to a regiment in an unimportant part of its homeland, its host unit marked on a brass disk screwed into the stock, and used to engage targets no more threatening than printed and painted silhouettes.

War did come to the fatherland of its designer just a few months after his own passing, and hundreds upon thousands of the m/96's foreign cousins endured trial by fire in a conflict of unimagined scale and ferocity. The eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month came and went, leaving four empires broken and dismembered. But Sweden had sat out the war, and this Mauser continued its idle fight against paper and pasteboard.

Some were foolish enough to call that bloody mess the war to end all wars. In truth, the fuze was already smoldering anew before the guns went silent. The Mauser family grew, Belgians and Czechoslovakians competing with Germans to meet the demands of the market, but the Swedes were concerned with other things. The ponderous long rifles and their snub-snout carbine companions plodded on unchanged while the world sank in economic depression and shook with the first rumblings of the next global conflict.

As the clouds darkened over Europe once again, some of the m/96's siblings were pulled from service and had their barrels and stocks recut to a shorter length. They were joined by others newly made to the same pattern, following the trends of neighboring armies. Then fighting broke out in the land across the narrow waters to the east, and some of the long Mausers were sent to sit on the sidelines of a battlefield where Mosins fought against Mosins, but this aging m/96 again stayed home. Meanwhile the greater war expanded, the nations to the south and west suffering invasion and occupation one by one.

In the Mauser's fortieth year, its owners undertook another program to catch up with those who might next be knocking at _their_ door. Some of its kind were picked out for outstanding accuracy, fitted with telescopic sights and fed improved ammunition. This one was passed over for the optics upgrade, but in time the new cartridge became its regular diet. It was modified, first with a tacked-on plate instructing its bearers in the use of the sharp-tipped bullet, and then handed in to an armorer who adjusted its sights and punch-marked the condition of its bore on a new stock disk.

Greater changes were still in the works. The Mausers were joined by the newfangled Ljungman, which used gas pressure to do the work formerly entrusted to the operator's hands, and by a fresh production run of long rifles. The hot war ended and a cold war began, bringing revised alignments and rethought strategies. By now the m/96 was severely long in the tooth, as self-loading and select-fire systems were becoming the order of the day. Its wood was nicked and dented from being knocked about in a thousand exercises, its lands and grooves beginning to lose their sharp edges. Many of its brothers were overhauled, their worn stocks and barrels replaced as needed, but not this one.

Over the coming decades, this one and thousands like it were pulled from the racks, stricken from the lists and sold out of service. Some went to domestic customers, while others were bought up by foreign companies and distributed overseas. Yet again, however, this one did not go far: it passed into the hands of a man named Stefansson, who fitted it with a Fäldt diopter sight, like the target shooters used on their match rifles, and screwed a wooden pistol grip onto the stock because he found the straight wrist uncomfortable. He used the Mauser in local competitions for a while, before he retired and moved out to the countryside. Stefansson spent the next twenty-odd years stalking deer and moose with it, until his eyes dimmed and his hands grew unsteady. The m/96 was passed on to his son not long before old age quietly claimed him.

Stefansson Junior carried on the tradition, but by the late '90s those years of frequent use had taken a noticeable toll on the rifle's accuracy. It was still adequate for a hunter, but the younger Stefansson was more interested in feats of precision. He thought about trading it away for something new, a nice Husqvarna or Sako, but in the end the sentimental memories dissuaded him. Instead, he saved up some money and took the Mauser to a specialist. It was knocked down into its components, the barrel unscrewed and replaced with a new one of the same weight and profile. The bluing had worn thin on the barrel bands and trigger guard, and Stefansson Junior found the preventative maintenance tiring. He cleaned all the surfaces and recoated them with an airbrush, duplicating the dark blue-black color of the old finish in a stronger medium.

Then the aliens came.

The m/96 took a human life for the first time in the autumn of its hundred and second year, when the Arume tried to drop a raiding party into the Nordic wilderness. Stefansson Junior and his neighbors, all drafted into a stopgap militia, were the first to catch them on the ground. As the invasion transitioned away from bombardment and terror weapons towards a more conventional ground-pounding affair, Stefansson was inducted into the remnants of the Swedish army as a scout. The Mauser was too unwieldy for his new role, and he had to store it away in exchange for a Bofors automatic.

After some years of lying idle, interrupted only by brief and intermittent excursions when its master was on leave, a new arrival gave the m/96 another chance: a stranger from the east who came knowing almost nothing of the art of war. The son of Stefansson – himself childless – took her in for a while, taught her everything he knew, and then gathered his surviving friends and persuaded them to do the same. Most of them would fall in battle before they had a chance to truly appreciate the fruit of their labor: together they had honed a killer as cold as the surrounding ice, who redeemed their investment by waging a nine-year personal campaign of eradication against the invaders.

It had been a good run, up until that evening when the Arume decided to single out Mari from among all the others who preyed on their hapless underlings. A stranger snatched her up and spirited her away, depositing the warrior and her weapon in a new world. Now the Swedish Mauser lay sandwiched between a Chinese Dragunov and an Argentine FAL on a rack in a locked cabinet, waiting for the next chance to strike fear into its mistress's enemies.

The next chance would come far, far sooner than she anticipated.

* * *

Renaril felt better after visiting the toilet and availing herself of the water fountain in the hallway, but she still experienced a certain dread, or maybe a dreadful certainty, about what awaited her in the bedroom. She didn't dare run away, however, when her shameful actions were not yet atoned for. Kang was awake when the Arume returned, sitting barelegged on the bed in her white pullover. She'd opened the curtains a little, admitting early morning light.

"Good morning, Renaril." The colonel's face was placid, her voice calm.

"...'Morning."

"How do you feel?"

"My head hurts." Renaril swallowed. "Li, I... I'm sorry for what I did last night, so... please forget everything and let me start over."

"Forget everything?" Kang cocked her head. "You regret making love to me?"

"What? No... I mean... that is..." Renaril fumbled so badly that she nearly bit her tongue. "I did that?"

"You were rather aggressive," her partner confirmed. "I suppose it was the vodka."

"I'll never drink again," the alien vowed. "Um, does this mean we... made up?"

"Of course." Kang adjusted her posture, the bottom of the jumper riding high on her bare hips. "You don't remember?"

Renaril shook her head, shamefaced. "I was with the Australians, and then a man named Bruce came... or maybe it was two Bruces, I don't know." She searched her opposite's face apprehensively. "Did I do anything weird?"

"No," Kang assured her, "you were a well-behaved drunk." She patted her naked lap. "Come here."

Renaril obeyed the summons, climbing onto the bed and settling down with her thighs spread over Kang's. "Did I say anything I shouldn't have?"

"No... Keldanil and Schuhart were very patient and supportive, so I think everything will be all right."

"Mm..." Renaril snuggled up against her elder's body. She was, to borrow a funny line from one of Elaqebil's movies, not in the condition to fuck – but this closeness wouldn't aggravate her hangover. "Are you okay, Li?"

"I'm fine." Kang stroked her back. "A little tired, that's all."

"...Sorry."

"Don't be," the short-haired woman replied. "I guess we'll need to adjust the rules of this relationship."

"Mm-hm." The smaller of the two turned her head and pressed her lips against the side of her lover's neck. "Does it still have to be a secret?"

Kang squirmed a little at the unexpected contact. "It isn't very secret any more," she sighed, "but please, let's keep it low-key until things have quieted down a little." The fighter suddenly retaliated by kissing Renaril's forehead. "I don't want you to become a target."

Somehow whatever happened last night had really brought out Kang's sweet side. "You... you neither." Renaril decided to test her luck a little and gently pushed the older woman onto her back. "Li... when it's safer, can we, er..."

"Yes..?"

"Can we date?"

"Date? Isn't it a little late to be doing that?"

"I don't think so." Renaril rested her cheek on Kang's chest, listening to her heart beating where the fabric of the jumper was stretched thin by her unsupported breasts. "There's still so much I want to know about you, so much I want to do with you..."

"I know." Kang brushed a few stray hairs away from the Arume's face. "This is all new to me, so please be patient if I'm not very good."

"I feel like I should be the one saying that." Renaril closed her eyes, enjoying the tender ministrations. "Li, what's the name of that dress your people wear? The one with a slit on the outside of the leg?"

"A qipao. Why?"

"Just thinking."

The air of innocence wasn't innocent enough. "You want to see me dressed like the Shanghai bourgeoisie?" Kang prompted, sounding faintly amused. "I'll think about it."

Renaril blushed, and was composing a retort when she heard a knock on the door. "Colonel, Group Commander," a muffled voice called, "it's Lebel. I brought you some fresh clothes, in case you want to use the showers."

Renaril didn't much care that she stank of sweat and sex, but Kang was not so carefree. "Thank you," the latter answered. "We'll be right there."

* * *

The Eto Delo pistol range was twenty-five meters' length from benches to target stands, and boxed in on three sides by high piles of concrete rubble. It was placed to the south of the main base in Kowloon, on the border of the abandoned shore area, and faced towards the east because there was nothing important for a stray bullet to hit over there. The light wasn't too good at this time of day, so Mari hoped she could have the range to herself for a little while.

Circumstances were not obliging. She was tightening the screw of her clamp-on brass catcher when company arrived: Sauer the gosta, looking highly handsome as she escorted a blond girl whom Mari hadn't seen before. The latter's left sleeve was empty from the shoulder down, and she had a crinkled burn scar which reached up the side of her neck almost to the ear. It was clear from the way she walked that there were bigger scars under her shirt and trousers. This must be the mildly notorious Camilla Laforey, Mari concluded.

"Good morning, Miss Mariko," the artificial girl hailed.

"Good morning," Mari returned automatically. She still hadn't gotten used to that idiosyncratic formality of theirs. "I can go somewhere else if you want the range to yourselves," the sniper offered. "Don't let me get in the way of your date."

"Oh no, it's not like that," Sauer protested, suggesting to Mari that she wished it were. "And you were here first."

"Well, if you're don't mind." Mari went down to the far left end of the range, its extremity marked by a low sandbag barrier, and resumed her preparations – might as well give the pair some space. She noted with some curiosity that Sauer had brought a folding chair and the .22 Lee-Enfield trainer which Schuhart kept around the office for pest control. It was an odd choice for a one-armed person to plink with, but Camilla must have requested it particularly.

"Shall I set out a target for you, Miss Mariko?"

"No need." Mari held up a charger loaded with practice rounds, dull cartridges tipped by red-painted wooden bullets. "I'm just exercising my fingers."

* * *

The shower nozzles numbered twenty in all, arrayed along the long walls of a rectangular room with white tiling on all its surfaces. The spray of warm water felt good on Kang's shoulders and back, long rivulets running down her thighs and calves. The lingering stiffness from Renaril's boozed-up coupling was fast dissolving from her muscles. It had been a long time since she'd actually enjoyed the activity like this.

Renaril, standing immediately to her right, didn't look so happy – probably because she had to share the showers not only with Kang, but also with Eripol, Negadael and fifteen gosta... and Renaril really didn't like the gosta, even though the former living bombs were doing nothing to actually cause offense so far as Kang could tell. Most of them were chatting among themselves as they washed, many in pairs. Directly opposite herself, Richardson and Harrington were the very model of modest young lovers.

_We could learn something from them, Renaril._

The Arume adjutants, to their own credit, were maintaining a respectful silence. Kang rinsed out her hair and reached for the soap bar thoughtfully provided by Lebel, glancing at the gosta on her left as she did so. Krag was her name, if the colonel remembered correctly: a pretty girl who wore her hair in a sort of bob cut and had the body curves of a small adult, a marked contrast to the overgrown adolescent appearance which predominated among her siblings and their creators. She seemed to be alone, and wasn't adding much to the conversation.

When Kang looked again, she caught Krag looking back at her with a clouded expression. "Do you need this?" she asked, proffering the soap.

Krag quickly averted her face. "No, thank you."

"Is there something wrong?"

"I'm sure I am mistaken..."

"Go on," the Chinese woman encouraged. "I won't penalize you."

"Then..." Krag took a deep breath. "Is there any possibility that you are pregnant?"

"Hm?" Rubin came over, sniffing the air around Kang intently. "She's right," the second gosta declared after several seconds. "It's an Arume child." Her eyes darted towards Renaril. "Hers?"

Kang hoped she was right in judging it better to tell them the truth now, rather than put it off until it could no longer be kept hidden. "...Yes, it is."

Renaril muttered something in Arumic whilst viciously scrubbing her armpit.

Rubin planted her hands on her hips. "Group Commander, we would _all_ be honored to mate with the colonel... But if she has chosen you, we will respect that."

Clearly unmollified, Renaril's only answer was another grumble.

Rubin's lip curled. "Would you like to repeat that so your partner can hear it?" she asked pointedly. "Or shall I translate it for you?"

"Stop this," Kang interceded, rounding on her lover. "Renaril, don't antagonize them... Please forgive her," she continued, turning back to Krag and Rubin. "She's working off a bad hangover."

"We heard," Rubin remarked dryly. "In any case, please accept our congratulations." She bowed her head. "May you have an easy birth and a strong daughter."

"Thank you," Kang replied, doing her best to ignore the way Renaril bristled as the other gosta voiced their agreement with Rubin. Their support filled her with a sense of relief, even though she knew this show of solidarity was miniscule compared to the opposition she would inevitably be required to confront.

_Enjoy it while it lasts._

* * *

The gunship came out of nowhere, just like its predecessor which had tried to annihilate Mari in Rovaniemi. This model was bigger and meaner, with dual rows of swiveling pulse guns mounted on its underside like the legs of a prawn... but instead of blasting her to smithereens, it discharged a formation of Arume naval security troops. There must have been at least twenty of them, interchangeably sinister in their black suits, boots and shades, with their identical flattop haircuts.

The Butcher of Tallinn was with them, though Mari wouldn't have recognized her had she not introduced herself as such. She was a runt compared to her escorts – short and flat in all the wrong places, with pinkish hair and blue-green eyes under distinctive lashes. Quite a mouth on her, too: "I'd almost given up," she was saying with unbridled glee. "Can you imagine my excitement when I learned that Wakatake Mari was still alive?"

Mari preferred not to. There wasn't much she could do, disarmed and surrounded at gunpoint like this, and Sauer and Camilla were in the same predicament down at the other end of the firing line. The Butcher had also brought a familiar face to her sadistic party: Azanael, her wrists shackled behind her back and a yellowing bruise on her left cheek. They must have intercepted her on her way back from Vladivostok, the Japanese woman supposed. Azanael herself wasn't talking – she seemed to be in shock, or maybe she'd been drugged.

The Butcher was still gloating away, showing spectacular contempt for, or profound ignorance of, the danger she was putting herself in. "I can't wait to watch them open up your head," she leered, turning Mari's pistol over in her hands.

There seemed no point in denying her identity any longer, so the sniper decided to stall for time. Every second wasted here was a second closer to the security teams' arrival. "Why are you Arume still chasing me?" she inquired with genuine bitterness. "Why are _you_ chasing me? What did I ever do to you?"

"Feh..." The Butcher licked her lips. "I wanted to settle things with the traitor myself, but she went and died." Her face twisted into a predatory grimace. "So I'll have to settle for you instead."

"What are you talking about?"

"You were Ekaril's pet," the Arume snapped, somehow offended that Mari hadn't followed her meaning right away. "She abandoned the mission, turned against us... wrecked my ship, my beautiful _Kelbil_... It was for you, it was all for _you!"_

_Kelbil?_

The missing piece snapped into place. Back in the second layer, Mari had known little about the Butcher other than her sobriquet and the deeds by which she'd earned it. The Butcher didn't go to the frontlines, didn't take part in the battles... didn't present herself as a target of opportunity. There had been many who wanted to kill her even before she personally drafted the plans for the Estonian genocide, her 'lesson' to the subjugated peoples, but she had always kept out of their reach. Relinquishing a chance to eliminate this monster had hurt Mari's pride, of course it had, but she could have lived with that so long as Schuhart's man Hakim or some other assassin got the job done.

Not any more. To think that the Butcher of Tallinn, this little _bitch_ with the blood of nearly a million human beings on her hands, was once the commander of a ship in Hagino's fleet... And not just any ship, but the frigate which attacked _Blue_ without provocation. "That's it?" Mari demanded incredulously. "You followed me here because you're a sore loser?"

"Tch..!" The alien raised the Lahti, its muzzle visibly trembling – whether from her rage or from its weight wasn't obvious.

"Don't do it," Sauer warned. "Uncle Roland won't forgive anyone who hurts his employees."

A brave effort, but a futile one. The Butcher spun around, straightened her arm and plugged Sauer in the gut.

_"No!"_ Camilla tried to reach the gosta, but one of the guards snatched her by the arm and slammed her back against the bench. The second shot flew wide of its mark as the Butcher struggled to control the Finnish brick, but the third hit Sauer high in the chest. She stumbled back, crashed into the sandbags and toppled over them.

Mari inhaled through her nose, bent her knees and jabbed her arms out to the sides, knocking her distracted minders off balance. The one just to her right had been holding her rifle with the muzzle pointed up: it dropped, landing on its buttplate, and fell almost directly into its owner's hands. Running on reflexes, Mari snatched up the Mauser and brought it to bear just as the alien commander turned. There was no time for a witty one-liner. She pulled the trigger, the striker and cocking sleeve snapped forwards, and a searing jet of gas and wood splinters hit the Butcher of Tallinn square in the face.

_"Aiiiyaaaaaaaaaaaaa..!"_

Mari's hasty action didn't take into account the guard at the six o'clock position, who came up and whacked her across the back of the head with a pulse gun as she was trying to eject the blank casing. The exile fell forwards and scrabbled to catch herself, landing hard on her left side. Her head spun.

_Boom!_

One of the gunship's underbelly cannons exploded, bits of it falling away as arcs of purplish energy crackled and popped in its wrecked mounting. As Mari stared up at the hovering vehicle with watering eyes, a second gun burst asunder.

* * *

"That's the pack leader," said Astra, listening intently to the distant blasts. "Something is going on."

"Are you sure it's not training?" asked Kang, a drop of accumulated water oozing out of her damp hair and trickling down the nape of her neck.

The smallest gosta shook her head. "She doesn't practice with the Gepard so early in the day... We have to find Uncle Roland!"

She began to run, tracing the straightest path from the dormitory entrance to the main offices, and the other girls followed. Kang ran after them, the North Korean threat fresh in her mind, with her bewildered Arume companions trailing behind. They came to the headquarters building just as Schuhart emerged, carrying a yellow travel bag under one arm. Master Commander Keldanil was with him.

"There you are," the arms dealer called, adjusting course to intercept the females. "We have a problem."

So Astra's intuition was correct. "What's going on?" Kang queried.

"Sky eyes," Schuhart grumbled. "One ship, pretty small. Won't answer our hails." He waved towards the south. "It dropped some infantry. Looks like a raid."

"A raid?" Renaril repeated. "On what?"

"Spotter's report says they landed at the handgun range. Sauer, Mariko and Camilla Laforey were down there." He shrugged. "We've got no radio contact, nothing... Urban loadout, girls. Get your details from Artyom."

"What are you going to do?" Renaril asked nervously as the gosta jogged past her en route to the armory.

"Gonna deal with it," Schuhart answered gruffly, opening his bag. "They're not your friends, they're not Keldanil's friends, and they sure as hell aren't _my_ friends... These are for you," he added, handing her a drinking flask and a bottle of painkillers.

"Um... Thank you."

"I think you three had better stay inside until this is over," the one-eyed man went on, pulling some pieces of welded metal out of the bag and snapping them together with brisk, familiar movements. "Take this, just in case." He drew a stick magazine from the bag, jammed it into the submachine gun and passed both the weapon and the bag to Kang. "There's my ride," Schuhart concluded, nodding towards the garages next door as the captured GAZ truck rolled out. "I'll see you later."

Renaril pried open the bottle as he limped away, shook out two of the pills and hurriedly washed them down. "...That was very weird."

"What was?" Kang responded. "That he happened to be carrying a dismantled Sten?"

"No." The group commander took another swig. "He always blames me when these things happen, _always._ Why didn't he blame me this time?"

* * *

The invaders were bugging out.

The gunship withdrew after losing three of its weapons, though the sniper with the anti-armor rifle continued to scar its hull as it retreated. The Arume on the ground were trying to rejoin it on foot, navigating a winding path through the ruins. Sauer and Camilla had been left behind, perhaps left for dead, but the Butcher wasn't ready to let go of Mari or Azanael. Now the sniper was being marched along beside the pilot, hands likewise pinned behind herself, with the low morning sun shining harsh on her face.

"Where did they grab you?"

Azanael didn't answer, though she seemed to be aware of what was happening around her. Something akin to a muzzle brake jabbed into Mari's back, prompting her to march on and keep her mouth shut.

"Just you wait." The Butcher was completely blind, white fluid oozing from under the bandage which covered her ruined eyes. The wound did nothing to improve her temper. "I'll break the big one first, take her apart bit by bit..."

Mari rolled her eyes. Now that she had time to think about it, she felt... _cheated_, almost. The Butcher's enemies had taken her elusiveness as proof of cunning – what would they say if they could see her now, with one of her subordinates leading her by the hand as if she were a stray child?

"...And then I'm going to uncoil your guts – "

"Are you?" Mari cut her off as they crossed a rubble-strewn intersection. "Have you ever done _anything_ personally except sign orders?" She worked up a big gob and spat, narrowly missing her enemy's ankle. "You ordered a wall to be built, and the people in Tallinn ate each other. Did you ever go and listen to their cries?" The pulse gun prodded her again, but she ignored it. "You ordered a tunnel to be built, and three hundred thousand Danes – "

_Whap!_

The Butcher's seeing eye stumbled, making a noise like a wet cough, and crumpled to the ground. The others did what instinct dictated and what training was supposed to prevent: they froze like animals in headlights, their leader still reaching out for a guide who wasn't there.

_Zzzup-p-p!_

The second projectile hit the Butcher in the left cheek and blasted out the right side of her lower jaw, taking a couple of bicuspids and a molar with it. Her head snapped around, giving Mari a good look at the exit wound, and she fell in a senseless heap. There was no bang and no supersonic crack, but their very absence told Mari that somewhere out there Karan and his Vintorez were watching over her.

They weren't alone: one of the troops raised her pulse gun, aiming towards the north. The third round – smaller diameter, higher velocity – put a pencil sized hole in her forehead and a fist sized crater in the back, accompanied by the familiar _blam_ of a Dragunov. Its fading echo was replaced by a rising roar of truck engines.

_Finally!_ thought Mari. She lowered herself onto her knees and then did a sort of twist, making a relatively gentle landing on the crumbling pavement. Azanael mimicked the maneuver beside her. By now the guards were too busy engaging the new arrivals to take much notice, streams of violet tracers hissing through the air. The aliens' firing was answered by the high, rapid snapping of lighter-caliber weapons. Then a bigger bolt streaked overhead: the Arume gunship, damaged but not disabled, making its return.

_BAM!_

Mari didn't even have time to worry before the shockwave hit, buffeting her face and leaving a shrill ringing in her ears. She only faintly heard the crash of the gunship falling into the remains of a demolished high-rise, and looked up to find a yellowy trail marking the flight path of the missile which had finished it off. The speed of the shot meant her backup must have been lying in wait for the hostile unit, and the power of whatever artillery they were using made the 105mm tank shell which killed the Rovaniemi ship look like a cherry bomb in comparison.

The firefight lasted another three or four minutes – a long time compared to some she'd had been in. Thirty seconds past the last gunshot, she gingerly raised her head and saw the twelve-man security team moving in for a body check. They were a slick-looking bunch, outfitted with kit her comrades in Finland would surely have drooled over: ballistic vests with matching knee and elbow pads, and AK-100 series carbines with Kobra collimators. A couple also sported underbarrel grenade launchers.

The one in front handled his gear pretty well for a man who was short an index finger. He scanned the battleground quickly, then raised his supporting hand, showing Mari that he was also missing the ring and little fingers on that side, and tapped his radio. "Baza, eta Dyatel..."

* * *

"Camilla's fine... Sauer had her vest on, but she's in a lot of pain. They're checking her for broken ribs up at central." Keiko unclipped the water canteen from her belt. "How'd you make out, Woodpecker?"

"Schoolbook," the man with the digit deficit replied. "Couple of wounded, not serious."

"Hell of a first day back on the job, huh?"

"Feels like nothing changed." The Russian threw a glance at the Butcher, still lying unconscious and unattended. "What do we do with this one?"

"Leave her for now," the big woman advised, pausing for a pull at the canteen. "That was a pretty nice shot, Karan."

"Nice?" the dark-skinned man with the silenced rifle repeated critically. "I was aiming for the apricot."

"Ah, you did fine... In fact, it's just peachy."

The Indian grimaced at her wordplay. "Do you want an ice pack for that?" he asked, transferring his attention to Azanael.

"It's nothing," the pilot muttered. She wished the others would go on acting as though she were invisible, at least until her brain caught up with the morning's whirlwind of surprises... but if they were paying attention to her, she could satisfy one point of curiosity. "Was that some sort of rocket?"

"What, the big bang?" Keiko handed the canteen to Karan and made a swinging motion with her arms, stretching out the muscles. "That's the railgun Errol's been working on for the past month. Somehow he talked Roland into letting him try it out... It's a big pig – takes three Spugs to power it, plus a truckload of cables." She waved towards the thin plume of smoke rising nearby. "That one shot puts it out of action until he can pay for new rails. Make sure you thank him, okay?"

"I will." Looking the other way, Azanael saw Mari, the one forime she _didn't_ want to be ignored by, still busy searching the bodies of the slain naval troops. "...Did you need to kill all of them?"

"Maybe not," said the giantess candidly, "but between what happened yesterday and what's gonna happen tomorrow... Let's just say our bullshit threshold is real low right now." She arched an eyebrow. "Weren't any friends of yours, were they?"

The memory of lying in a pool of blood on _Novaal_'s hangar floor hadn't faded. "...No," Azanael admitted, standing up. "Excuse me." She needed to talk to Mari, even if it was only for a minute, before they were separated again. The smaller woman didn't look up from her gristly task when the gray-haired Arume approached, nor acknowledged her when she cleared her throat. "I... I'm glad you're alive."

"You shouldn't be." The Japanese fugitive motioned for her to go around to the other side of the corpse pile, so that they would be facing one another. "Over there, where I can watch you."

Azanael did as she was told. "I swear on Onomil's memory, I didn't tell them anything."

"Someone did." _Click... Shachak!_ "Too bad."

The Arume shivered a little as her old acquaintance tucked away the reclaimed pistol. The other's coldness left her at a loss for words – how Mari had changed in the sixteen years since they last met! "Um..."

"God damn it, my foot itches," Woodpecker complained loudly.

"So take off your boot and scratch it," Karan muttered.

"Other foot, comrade."

"...Sorry."

Woodpecker wasn't listening any more. "Semyon-Vasiliy-tree-shyest, Semyon-Vasiliy-tree-shyest, eta Dyatel," he reported, speaking into his radio now. "Da, ponyal... Peasants, the boss ladies are coming down to look at us. We must hurry and mop away the blood."

"Smartass." Keiko got up from her seat in the shade and walked across the street to Mari and Azanael. "You look like shit, Mariko," she said casually. "Whaddaya say we take thirty and hit the showers? It's gonna get busy in the afternoon."

"I'm fine."

"C'mon," the blonde insisted. "I need some intelligent company."

Azanael picked up on the subtext: Keiko wanted Mari out of here before Keldanil and Renaril arrived. "I'll talk to you later," she prompted, standing upright and making an ineffectual show of brushing the dirt off her coveralls.

"Yeah." The word slipped from the corner of Mari's mouth as she collected her long rifle. "Later."

Keiko had some advice for the pilot before she departed: "Let the Russkie boys do the talking, big girl. We might have a job for you, so don't wander off."

"What kind of job?"

"A flying job. You'll love it... Mind if we swipe your truck, Woodpecker?"

"Help yourself." The man flicked a key at her. "Ride safe, baryshni."

There was a knowing laugh. "Spasiba, tovarishch Mayor."

_How can they do that?_ Azanael wondered. _They go from killing us to joking with each other like it's nothing. What's wrong with them?_

"I hope that sonic boom didn't shake up the colonel too much," she heard Keiko remark, the voice fading into the distance. "Last thing we need now is a miscarriage..." A door slammed, an engine started, and then the enigmatic women were gone.

Woodpecker and Karan shared a look, then they both looked at Azanael. "...Miscarriage?"

The Arume raised her hands. "I don't know anything."

"Aaaaa... Aaa..!"

The Butcher was stirring. "She's waking up," Azanael called, watching the other alien's blind hands feeling at her gore-caked face with rising nausea.

"Good." Woodpecker strode over, his happy face changed to nail-chewing grimness. Ignoring Azanael, he planted a boot on either side of the tyrant's back and yanked her head up by the hair. "Listen to me, suka!" he hissed, mouth by her ear. "Your soldiers are dead and your ship is broken. Your betters are coming to beg forgiveness for having a stupid friend like you!"

The Butcher made a low moan, deep in her throat.

"Problem, suka?" The Russian shook her. "Can't see, can't talk? If you don't be good now, you won't be able to _piss_ without a – "

"Better stop that," Karan warned. "Here come the commanders."

"Aha." Woodpecker released the Butcher and straightened, briskly clapping his hands. "Bratsy, syuda! Davay, davay!"

* * *

Keiko wasn't joking about the showers. "Wow," she remarked, languidly ambling butt-naked into that space. "Hardly ever see this place empty."

"Mm." Mari went to the nearest showerhead and turned it on, the water cool at first and then warming a little. "...What's going to happen now?"

"The usual, probably." Keiko stuck her head under the adjacent stream. "Keep it low-key for the sake of the Liaison, you know."

"And the Butcher?"

"Sent home on a stretcher. Sending her in a box ain't worth the postage now."

Mari didn't laugh. "Why did she do it? Why here?"

"Why?" Keiko squirted a glob of shampoo into her palm. "Well," she mused, rubbing it into her hair, "word among those in the know is that the Butcher's career has been stagnating for a few years... Massacring your subjects isn't so smart when you need 'em to fight wars for you."

"She thought catching me would bring her back into favor..."

"Looks that way." The giantess rinsed, slicked her hair back, and moved on to the soap bar.

Mari followed suit. "How did she know I was here?"

"Leave that to Majestic. You've got other things to worry about right now."

"Nn..." The sniper watched her companion for a few seconds. "Should I not speak to Azanael?"

"I won't stop you... Just gotta watch what you say to her, hey?"

"Schuhart said she knows about Majestic..."

"She knows a little." Keiko's hands rubbed big, soapy circles on her abdomen. "But better not tell her any more just yet."

"I know." Mari cocked her head. "You seem to like her."

"Hm?" Keiko stopped rubbing. "Who, the ace in disgrace?"

"Yes."

The statuesque female shrugged. "She kind of reminds me of somebody I worked with... before I joined up with Roland."

"A friend?"

"Eh... More like a teacher."

"Oh." Mari raised her arm and grasped her own bar of soap, only to have it shoot from her fingers. "Wah..!"

"Huh?" Keiko turned just as the shorter woman lost her balance. "...Oof!"

Mari felt a tingling where their skin contacted. In the next instant she was in another time, another place... another _person._

* * *

"Twenty years."

Mari had no control over the body she found herself in: she could only share its true owner's perceptions. She was sitting in what appeared to be a derelict commuter train carriage, not unlike the one she had once ridden with Hagino. The view outside the cracked windows was a dismal one, a scrapyard dimly lit by a twilight sky. There were no obvious clues to its location, save a partially broken-away sign lying on the face of the closest junk pile. _ARBEITSLAGER FÜR KRIEGSVERBRE_, read the remaining letters, which did little to edify her.

"In twenty years they went from running the camps, to living in them... to this. What the hell have we done, JR?"

Mari's... host, for lack of a better word, didn't look at the man who was speaking. Instead she turned her eyes downward, to the large piece of dusty glass which lay on the carriage floor between her feet. The face reflected in it looked like Keiko, but her eyes and hair – the color of the Arume.

"We really fucked up," the man sighed. "Didn't we?"

Alter-Keiko finally turned her head. Sitting at the far end of the carriage was a man in Flecktarn camouflage. He bore a strong resemblance to Roland Schuhart, but was thinner and appeared to have all his body parts intact. His was the grating voice Mari heard, as if he'd been a heavy smoker or survived a gas attack. Standing in front of him was a second man in a navy blue business suit, his dark hair combed back and an unlit pipe jutting from his mouth.

"You could say that," the one with the pipe answered.

"I do say it," alter-Schuhart sighed. "We didn't use Möbius when we had the chance, Tu-Four never paid off, and now you're coming down here in person. Is Yui going to pull the plug?"

"No," said the one addressed as 'JR'. "Not yet."

"Humph." Alter-Schuhart noticed that one of his boots was coming untied, and hunched forwards to correct it. "That woman – is not nearly mature enough – to responsibly exercise the powers you allow her."

The pipe wiggled. "She says the same thing about you, you know."

"She's not the one getting her ass shot at every day." Alter-Schuhart sat up again. "So if she's not bailing out, then what's up?"

"She wanted your opinion on... acceptable losses."

"Acceptable losses? Buddy, we are far, _far_ past the point of accept – "

"Gordon!" A waif-sized Arume stumbled into the carriage through the doors beside alter-Schuhart. As she relayed the message, delivered in her native language with frequent pauses for breath, Mari noticed that she seemed to be wearing an oversized Czech woodland uniform with visible outlines where the insignia patches had been stripped off.

Alter-Schuhart heard her report, then sent her off with a pat on the shoulder. "We'll have to finish this later," he said to JR. "You ready, kiddo?"

"Always." Alter-Keiko bent and picked up what looked like a modified Kalashnikov machine gun, with a long charcoal-gray cowling, triangular in cross-section, fitted around the barrel. As she checked the ammunition belt, Mari saw that it was not loaded with brass or steel cartridges, but with solid pieces molded from a glassy gray ceramic, like Arume pulse gun rounds. Satisfied, its wielder thumped the top cover, cranked the charging handle and pushed herself onto her feet. "I'm right behind you."

"That's my girl." Alter-Schuhart turned around, carrying an ArmaLite carbine with the same style of barrel shroud. JR had vanished. "Let's move."

The messenger was waiting outside, along with six other Arume. All of them had grimy faces and matted hair, and they wore the scavenged uniforms, helmets and fittings of various European armies, mixed and matched without regard to nationality. Among them Mari identified a FAMAS, two Vzor 58s and an AK variant which might have been Finnish, the latter three sporting more of those gray cowlings, before alter-Keiko turned away. Now Mari also saw that there was a helicopter parked beside the derelict carriage, an Mi-8 with hand-patched bullet holes in its hull. The rotor blades were missing, the engine section replaced with a piggybacked module which, like the strange guns, appeared to be of Arume origin. Somebody had taken a stencil and christened the chimerical machine _Unbecoming Bathytrope_ in white paint.

"...My lead, _go!"_

"What about the chopper?" alter-Keiko asked, following as the others moved out in a ragged close combat formation.

"We'll have to come back for it," alter-Schuhart answered gravely, "if it's still here when we come back... _If_ we come back."

"Yeah," alter-Keiko opined. "Big 'if'."

The scrapyard was huge. The others seemed to know their way through it, though Mari had no idea where they were going or why they were in such a hurry...

"Contact!" Alter-Schuhart threw up a hand, bringing the team to a sudden halt. "Up front, kiddo."

Alter-Keiko hustled up, snugging the butt of the crypto-PKM against her shoulder. Standing in the middle of the path, maybe twenty paces away, was a slender adolescent figure – a naked being with no visible genitals. After a second, Mari realized that the creature wasn't standing, but floating just above the ground.

"Steady now," alter-Schuhart muttered as the bizarre being's eyes evaluated his companions one by one. "Maybe it's as dumb as the last – "

The messenger was suddenly plucked off her feet by an invisible force and pulled forwards irresistibly until she was suspended, squirming helplessly, directly in front of the creature. "No... _No!"_

The Arume with the crypto-AK fired a burst, seemingly uncaring that her comrade was in the way. The purple bolts didn't reach their target, but exploded just short: intercepted by an energy shield, a barrier of concentric orange octagons which flashed with each impact.

"Save your ammo!" alter-Schuhart barked. "You can't hurt it!"

"But – !"

"Get out of here," the man ordered tersely. "Go now, before it calls in the big one!"

The alien allies withdrew with open reluctance, leaving alter-Schuhart and alter-Keiko alone to witness what came next. The monster's neck bulged just before it opened its mouth impossibly wide, disgorging a swarm of oily black tendrils. The messenger was still screaming as the seething mass peeled back her face, cracked open her skull and burrowed into her brain.

Mari felt alter-Keiko's stomach contract. "Dad..!"

"Steady, kid... _Steady..."_

The thing dropped the lifeless messenger, threw back its head and let out a shrill cry. For what seemed like an entire minute, none of the three moved... And then _it_ descended: an Evangelion, with the same skinny build and huge shoulder pylons as the ones Mari had seen in photographs, sinking towards them out of the evening sky as if it were a colossal marionette hanging on unseen strings. This one didn't match any of the models Mari knew. Its head looked like Giger's interpretation of a jumping spider, and its armored body was painted in camouflage rather than the gaudy hues of the prototypes. On each upper arm it wore a number, _28_, and the black-red-yellow of the German flag.

"Killing flies with a sledgehammer," alter-Schuhart observed coolly.

* * *

"Ngh..!" Keiko jerked away convulsively, breaking the connection. Mari floundered for another source of support, collapsed against the wall and slid down into a jelly-legged pile on the shower floor. Keiko herself was in little better shape. "Fuck," she moaned, clutching her head. "I forgot you could..." One eye opened, the iris and pupil glowing electric blue... just like Hagino's when Mari accidentally intruded into the Arume's mind. "You saw it?"

Mari nodded, her heart pounding. "That... Is that how it's going to end?"

Keiko shook her head. "That was how the second try ended." Her other eye was also glowing. "Pray that the third turns out better."


	37. Despair, Rage, Envy

(I let myself be talked into writing one more chapter for this story's upcoming second birthday. Since I expect to be busy then, I'm posting it a couple of days ahead of schedule. This will be the last update for a bit, as my other projects have been sorely neglected.)

_Part 32: Despair, Rage, Envy_

"...Dereliction of duty, sedition against the Arume state, insurrection against the Arume state, furious flying, lusting after a forime woman by the name of Kawashima Akane – "

"Objection!" Phil Darwin's powdered wig and rainbow tutu quivered with the force of his righteous anger. "The defendant's sex life is not on trial!"

Up on the judge's bench, Elaqebil toyed with her bottle of green hair dye disinterestedly. "Objection overruled."

Keiko smirked. "Thank you, Your Honor... I would like to begin with the most serious charge."

"The insurrection?"

"No, the lust." The prosecutor clapped her hands. "I call my first witness to the stand – Navigator Onomil!"

Azanael slumped as the slender figure walked past her chair, the shackles on her own arms and legs jangling. _It can't be... She wouldn't..!_

"Onomil, you are engaged to the criminal – "

"Objection!" Phil jumped up and stood on top of his desk. "That 'asn't been proven!"

"Objection allowed."

"I will rephrase the question, Your Honor." Keiko folded her arms. "You are engaged to the _defendant_, are you not?"

"Yes." Onomil smiled sweetly at her. "We're partners."

"Just so... And you have no agreement or understanding that she is allowed to see any other women during your engagement?"

"That's right."

"And this engagement has never been annulled, am I correct?"

Onomil nodded. "Of course."

Keiko grinned wolfishly. "And how would you feel if you learned she were cheating on you?"

"Oh." Onomil blushed demurely. "I think... being abandoned would be very painful for me."

"No!" Azanael shook her head frantically. "Onomil, I wouldn't – I would never abandon you!"

"Order!" Elaqebil rapped the bench with her dye bottle. "It is not your turn to speak."

Onomil and Keiko both ignored the outburst. "Thank you," said the latter smoothly. "That will be all."

"Loike hell it is," Phil muttered. "Yer Honner, I want to cross-examine that witness."

"Very well."

"Roight!" The defending attorney leaned forwards, peering intently. "Onomil, are yah not, in fact, _dead?"_

She smiled some more. "Why, yes."

Phil turned to the judge. "Yer Honner, no sane court would accept the testimony of a dead person as evidence!"

Elaqebil frowned at him. "This is not a sane court, Mister Darwin."

"Oh." The Australian went back to his seat with a dejected look. "No further questions."

"I will call my second witness," Keiko announced. "Wakatake Mari!"

Azanael's bad feeling got worse as Onomil went out and a teenaged Mari took her place. There was only one thing they would want _her_ to testify about, and testify she did: how Azanael sabotaged Ekaril's ship during their date, how she lured Mari into a locked room, how she poisoned the girl's mind with slanders against Ekaril.

"...To further prove the crim – the _defendant's_ subversive nature, I now call Group Commander Benacirael!"

"Objection!" Phil conjured a box of cookies and began handing them out. "...Yer Honner," he continued once he and the cookie box had made a round trip of the courtroom, "my next witness would loike ter settle things wi' the witness!"

Elaqebil licked her fingers. "Objection allowed."

The room's lights went dark, except for a single beam shining directly onto the center of the floor. Benacirael appeared on one side of the lit circle, wearing a long coat with leather boots and white breeches. She scowled beneath her bicorn hat, one hand tucked inside her coat and the other toying with the hilt of a saber. Her opponent was Roland Schuhart, in similar garb.

Elaqebil rapped the bench smartly. "FIGHT!"

Benacirael drew her sword. "Everything tells me I shall succeed!"

Schuhart whipped out a flintlock. "Victory or Westminster Abbey!"

Benacirael lunged but Schuhart fired first, projecting a thick cloud of smoke into the Arume's face. She reeled, coughing violently.

"FINISH HER!"

_Dun-din-dunnn!_

Schuhart raised his arms and a massive anchor dropped from the ceiling, crushing Benacirael.

"FATALITY!"

The lights came back on, the others in the court paying no more attention to the remaining length of thick chain or the jagged hole in the floor through which it passed. "As my fourth witness, I call – "

"Objection!" Phil leaped onto his desk, thick smoke swirling around his legs. "ME KILT IS ON FIRE!"

Before Elaqebil could rule on this latest interruption, he produced a set of bagpipes and sounded a shrill note on them. There was a great rumbling, a terrible cracking and finally a tremendous crash as the courtroom collapsed on itself. Azanael curled up with a whimper, trying to cover her head.

"Coward."

"..!" The pilot raised her head sharply. Now she was kneeling on the debris-strewn deck of _Novaal_'s dark and cavernous fighter hangar, long rows of aircraft parked on either side. Shivariel stood before her in the familiar cape and dark leggings, backed up by at least a hundred of the hated naval troops.

"We're disappointed," said the master commander haughtily. "We thought you could be a powerful asset, but you've always let your emotions control you... In the end, you don't even have the courage to die beautifully." Shivariel turned her back. "Kill her."

Azanael wasn't ready to die, nor even close to being ready. She tensed, her jaw clenching as her erstwhile comrades took aim... and then a black cat walked in front of her. _"Don't have an exit?"_ an infomercial-narrator voice boomed. _"Don't worry! Avtomat Cat will clear the way!"_

An absurd impulse directed Azanael to snatch up the errant feline. Its fur was warm and soft to the touch, but she felt the angular outlines of something hard and metallic under its skin. Tucking its hindquarters under her right arm, she grabbed its forelegs with the opposite hand. The animal hissed, flatting its ears against its head.

_Shshshshshshshoomf!__ Shshshshshshshoomf! Shshshshshoomf!_

The cat wriggled out of her grasp and scampered away, acrid smoke trailing from its mouth and nostrils. Azanael blinked a few times, trying to see past the yellow-white afterimage of the starburst muzzle flash. It looked as if that had put paid to her enemies in short order, leaving her briefly at a loss for what to do now.

_I need to get out of here..._

Her personal craft, the nimble _Getour_, should be parked nearby. She grasped the pendant which hung against her front, tripping the hidden beacon circuit inside. There was an answering _ping_ behind her: rising, the pilot went to find her mount. Azanael discovered it just around the corner of the next launching rack, a faint green light pulsing warmly inside the open cockpit.

_Thank goodness._

Onomil's taunting voice came out of the shadows underneath the vehicle. "Oh – no – you – _don't!"_

"What – !"

_Dun-din-dunnn!_

Onomil's arm stretched out, a hand closing tightly around Azanael's throat and lifting the bigger Arume off the deck. "Naughty, naughty," she chided, fingers sliding up the inside of the outcast's thigh.

"Urrrgh..!" Azanael wanted to protest, but her constricted larynx made it impossible. The simulacrum of her dead lover didn't waste time with foreplay – the next thing she felt was Onomil's slim hand tunneling into her pelvis from below. There was no pain, only the sensation of herself stretching around the intruder... and then the violating fingers dug in and pulled hard. Something was torn loose inside, drawn downwards until it left her body with a wet _pop!_

"You don't need this any more." Onomil raised her hand, letting Azanael witness her own uterus lying on the phantasm's upturned palm for a few moments before it was crushed into a pinkish pulp. _"She_ isn't interested in that."

"Hrrrnnnnnnnnn..!" The dangling woman kicked in a blind panic as that tormenting hand went back to her groin. Gore-slick fingertips traced the length of her sacred cleft, seized upon the tender nub at its apex and _pulled._ "Uuuaaaaaaaaagh..!"

"Now you have what she wants." Onomil released her plaything without warning, turned on her heel and strode away into the darkness. She left a bewildered Azanael sitting on the deck plates behind her, staring down at the long, limp _thing_ which had appeared between her legs.

"...Azanael?"

"No!" The Arume clamped her thighs together, the _thing_ stiffening grotesquely in response to that voice. "Don't look, Akane! Please don't look!"

"Shh." Strong arms embraced the terrified woman. "It's all right. You're safe."

Azanael clung to her like a drowning swimmer clutching at a buoyant log. "I never... I don't want..."

"Shh," the other repeated. "Don't be afraid... You aren't alone."

"...Eep!"

Azanael awoke with a jolt. She was lying in a narrow bed, clad only in forime underwear, with her limbs wrapped around a naked figure which was definitely female and definitely too small to be Kawashima Akane. It took her a second to remember where she was.

_Antonov An-22V (tail code AChB-9243, property of Eto Delo Group)  
G-hour minus 03:58.05  
April 29th, 2016_

"Who... who are you?"

"My name is Krag," a tranquil voice replied in Arumic. "Are you all right, Flight Chief?"

"Gosta..." Azanael squirmed away from the intruder. "Why is a gosta in my bed?"

"You were in distress." Krag shielded her eyes – and _only_ her eyes – as Azanael located the switch for the cramped cabin's ceiling light. "I wanted to comfort you."

The adult wanted to ask this uninvited guest to remove herself, but a question came out instead. "Why?"

The artificial girl propped herself up on an elbow, looking innocently seductive. "I like you."

"Don't say that." Azanael would like to get up, but Krag was in her way. "Do you know what would happen to both of us if anyone heard you?"

"I do know," Krag answered unconcernedly. "Why should I care? The Arume want to kill me anyway." She flipped onto her belly, crossing her forearms and resting her head on them. "I've been watching you," the gosta confided. "I can see that you aren't like the others."

_I can't deal with this. Not now._

"Listen to me," Azanael sighed. "I understand you want to help, but I... I need to be alone right now."

Krag didn't protest. "As you wish," she conceded, slipping out of the bed. "If you should change your mind, I think you know where to find me."

"Mmph..."

The girl left without putting on any clothes, and in fact seemed to have brought none with her. Azanael pushed the thought away and reached for her coveralls, mentally retracing her path to this situation as she guided her bare legs into the garment. The North Koreans' attack on Tokyo-2 had been halted and mopped up, and a new administration, allied with the Arume, was already directing affairs in Japan. Meanwhile fighting between government troops and the Kimist insurgents continued to rage in Seoul, with no clear outcome. The invasion of Shanghai had gone far better for the aggressors, who swarmed off their anchored ships and overwhelmed the overtaxed defenders like the proverbial lightning.

It was assumed from the start that the Sino-Arumic Liaison would not stand idly by, unlike its suspicious and self-serving warlord neighbors, even though the overrun Free City lay well outside the extent of its control. Plans for a counterattack were probably being drafted even before Colonel Kang and her retinue returned from Japan, the UN conference being no longer relevant to any realistic projects. It was no secret that the Liaison's armed forces were geared towards defense, and couldn't effectively project force so far from their home bases... but once again the friendly fellows at Eto Delo Group stood ready to make their task easier.

That had been the initial plan, anyway. The warlord ruler of Zhejiang Province, over whose territory the Liaison's troops would have to pass, balked at granting access to his own most probable enemy. Then the crisis was further complicated by the appearance of a communique, purportedly authored by members of the Shanghai government in hiding, which explicitly rejected any assistance from the Liaison. Instead the oligarchs sought relief from Landline Transnational, a South African mercenary company which had been executing a security contract in nearby Jiangsu. Nobody could miss the implied snub: Landline was owned by Omar bin Salaad, staunch opponent of the Arume and cutthroat rival of Roland Schuhart.

Still more players intervened. Eto Delo's stymied contract with the Liaison was rescued by the Japanese headquarters of the Nerv organization, which wished to keep the assets of its Shanghai branch out of North Korean hands. Alarmed by the potential threat of his rival in Jiangsu encroaching from the north behind Landline's expedition, the head of the Zhejiang clique reversed his opposition and granted limited passage to Eto Delo. His choice saved their plan of battle, and now the private army from Hong Kong – itself a city-state de facto if not de jure – was on its way to Shanghai.

Their strategy was audacious, on a par with Kang Li's maneuver to oust Lin Qinsong... and like that operation, it depended on a tightly coordinated application of air power. The suitable aircraft on hand didn't have enough range to make the flight from Hong Kong to Shanghai in one go, a problem solved by careful leapfrogging. Right now the advance elements were en route to the primary staging point, a small airport in central Zhejiang. The attack party would land only briefly, long enough to arm and refuel the helicopters, exchange their transit pilots for fresh combat operators, and embark the airborne infantry. The choppers would proceed straight to Shanghai from there, while their fixed-wing companions diverted to Hangzhou and set up a base of support. The objectives were simple: secure a foothold in Shanghai and keep the North Koreans off balance until heavier firepower arrived by air and sea.

It should have had nothing to do with Azanael, but Keiko Kovalchuka had other plans. One of Eto Delo's pilots was grounded with a broken wrist, she said. Azanael was the perfect substitute, she said. They could make it all legit, she said. Azanael had no doubt that Keiko's real motive was to keep her on a short leash, in case she did any more harm to Mari's cover. The Arume refused the offer point-blank, even after learning just how much she would be paid for her services... but then Keiko showed her the machine she'd be flying.

When Azanael was a cadet at Striving Boronia, mastering the fighter simulators by day and sneaking off to make out with Onomil in the woods by night, the teetering yet still ponderous might of the Soviet Union had been a very real concern for Arume tacticians. Her race had observed with great interest as the Kamov Design Bureau unveiled their newest model: the Ka-50's nimble single-seater design resembled the aliens' own construction philosophy. It was earmarked for further study, with an eye towards adapting it to post-invasion use by the coming conquerors... And then the USSR broke apart. Work on the Ka-50 continued, but the new Russia's economic woes hit hard and only a handful were in operation when the invasion finally commenced. Arume interest subsequently drifted to other designs, other scenarios... other problems.

The little Kamov hadn't been completely forgotten, however. In the winter of 2735 – February 1996 by the forime calendar – an Arume infiltrator in Arsenyev obtained detailed information about the Ka-50. She relayed it to the nearest allied force, Shivariel's fleet, and a simulator with a perfectly detailed cockpit mockup was constructed aboard _Novaal_. As crew chief of the command ship's aviation detachment, it was only natural for Azanael to familiarize herself with the system... but as the years dragged by and no word came of _Blue_'s condition or her beloved Onomil's fate, the simulator became a means of escape for the lonely woman. Unable to fly _Getour_ or get away from the claustrophobic confinement of her deep-sea posting, she racked up thousands of hours in the sim-pods instead, soaring among voxel clouds in dozens of exotic airframes. The flawlessly replicated virtual Kamov had been her favorite by far.

When she reflected on that, it didn't seem so strange that her heart might have skipped a beat after Keiko led her to the landing field ten minutes uptown from Eto Delo HQ. _"It's supposed to be our display model,"_ the manipulator confided, patting the parked chopper's sleek nose, _"but everything works. Wanna try it?"_

And Azanael, who should have known better, said yes.

_Tunk-tunk-tunk!_

"...Yes?"

The cabin door opened. It was Krag again, now sporting a downsized facsimile of forime battle dress. "There is something you need to see," she intoned. "Come with me."

"Eh..?"

The gosta walked away without elaborating. Azanael stepped out of her cabin in bare feet, shutting the door behind her as Krag moved down the central hallway. This Antonov had been stripped by its present owners, the interior rebuilt into something halfway between a cheap hotel and a submarine's guts. Its alien passenger dimly understood that it was usually meant to be an inter-office transport for the company's staff, instead of an air truck for combat zone hauls, but this aging four-engine turboprop seemed a bizarre choice of platform...

Azanael gave a mental shrug and followed Krag. She hadn't closely studied the layout of the plane earlier, other than to locate the emergency exits, but she remembered that there were larger rooms at the forward end of this deck. Given the affinity of the gosta for communal living, they would be quartered there. Krag offered no hint of the destination until she suddenly stopped at one door, unremarkable among the ones she'd already passed, and indicated that Azanael should remain silent. Then she carefully opened it and vanished inside.

Mari was there already, leaning against the bulkhead on the other side of the doorway with her arms folded across the front of an olive drab vest. Catching Azanael's eye, she motioned for the Arume to come inside and close the door. The pilot did that, feeling a twinge of unease course through herself. She hadn't spoken to Mari since their forced reunion yesterday, and the other woman's face was an impassive mask. Better not force the issue now, she decided, and turned her eyes further inside the room.

This cabin was a long rectangle with a high ceiling, fitted with stacked bunks along both sides. It offered barely enough space for eight forime, but the gosta had crammed themselves into it by doubling up in the bunks. Most of them were lying on top of their blankets, some dressed and some just in their undergarments, silhouetted against the gentle glow of the orange night light bracketed on the farthest wall. Their attention, and now Mari's as well, was raptly fixed on the spectacle below.

A pair of the synthetic females lay nude on a blanket spread across the floor, their legs intertwined, thrusting their nether regions together with a slow but powerful rhythm. Their eyes were closed, their small breasts rising and falling steadily, their backs arching in time to each push. Their faces were so serene that they looked to be in a trance, utterly detached from their surroundings. As Azanael's eyes began to compensate for the relative lack of light, she saw that their skin had a fine sheen all over. It was too even to be sweat – had the pair coated themselves with some sort of oil before this... this _performance?_

She glanced at Mari, hoping for an answer, but Mari only gestured for her to keep watching the display. Azanael found her gaze perversely drawn to the nexus between the coupling pair. There was something there, she realized: a black rod or shaft, and the girls were impaled upon its opposing ends. It was flexible, with a soft or perhaps liquid core, and the visible part swelled with every thrust, distending the smooth labia between which it passed.

A sharp intake of breath from the nearer of the pair indicated that the ritual was nearly at its end. She increased her exertions, her partner hastening to match the effort. Azanael could only watch in mute awe as the climax took one and then the other, rippling through their bodies like water gushing along a rain-swollen stream. They must have been aiming to initiate orgasm simultaneously, but she knew from her own experience that even this degree of closeness was an impressive feat.

The gosta relaxed, settling onto the blanket, and lay still for several seconds. Azanael finally recognized them when they opened their eyes: the closer of the two was Harrington, this unique unit's sniper, and the other was her spotter, Richardson. Harrington seemed to contemplate the ceiling momentarily, then rose with a soft sigh and backed herself off of the rod's bulbous end. Reversing herself and crawling forwards, she carefully withdrew the remainder of its length from Richardson's quivering body and set it aside. There was a faint murmur among the spectators as the girl mounted her partner and drew her up into a deep kiss.

Azanael was beginning to half-facetiously wonder if she ought to applaud when Mari tapped her arm: _Show's over, time to go._

The Arume saved her questions until the two were back in the hall. "What... what _was_ that?"

"An affirmation of love," said Mari matter-of-factly. "They've taken a rite from your ancestors' manufactured faith and adapted it to their own needs."

"I see." _Maybe._ "Um... Can we talk?"

"If you want." Mari turned around. "Come on, my cabin's closer."

"Mm..."

"There seems to be a lot of sex in your religion," the second layer exile observed quietly.

"Yes," Azanael agreed somberly. "There is."

"Did you practice it?"

"Only when Onomil wanted to," said the gray-haired one flatly. "As you said, it's an invented tradition."

"It's not the only one," Mari muttered, but didn't expand on that sentiment. "We're here."

'Here' was a cabin like Azanael's own, and no less barren of personal touches. The only immediate difference she noted was the long wooden case strapped to the deck under Mari's bunk. It was painted dull green with a star-in-circle done in red and yellow on the lid, and had a carry strap attached with a pair of metal swivels. "What's that?"

"My work piece for this job," Mari replied, sitting on the bed. "A PLA standard issue Type Seventy-Nine, if that means anything to you."

"It doesn't."

The expat nudged the case with her heel, verifying that it was still secure. "That's why you sky eyes need to learn that you don't kick the dog which guards you."

"The dog..?"

"Never mind." Mari crossed her arms again. "So what's troubling you, Flight Chief?"

"I..." Azanael hesitated for a second, wondering where to begin, then sat down on Mari's left. "Why did Krag want me to see that?"

"She must think you're a 'good person'."

Not a very enlightening answer. "She was in my bed when I woke up. Is that what these gosta do to 'good people'?"

"They aren't shy about showing affection." Mari seemed amused by the other's predicament. "Nikka did that, too. You'll get used to it."

Azanael was hoping for some tips on _stopping_ it. "...Nikka?"

"Yeah." Suddenly Mari got up, crossed over to the bare bulkhead and leaned against it, facing the Arume. "My partner, you could say. We picked her up during the retreat from Kaliningrad."

The casual name-dropping startled Azanael. "Kaliningrad? You mean, in the second layer?"

"Where else?"

It was now a little more than two years since that city fell to the Arume armies, but the place had remained on Azanael's no-fly list long after the capitulation. "Why were you in Kaliningrad?"

"Why do you _think?"_ Mari stabbed a finger at the rifle case behind Azanael's ankles. "Or do you suppose I only learned to use that yesterday?"

"...The resistance." Even after the standoff with the Butcher of Tallinn, Azanael couldn't quite accept it. "You were in the resistance."

"A foreign volunteer unit in the Free Europe forces," Mari corrected, "which stayed behind to protect the evacuation. The Arume dropped twenty thousand gosta to shake us up, knowing perfectly well that they couldn't self-destruct in that cold... The lucky ones froze to death on the first night."

"This 'Nikka' was one of them?"

Mari nodded. "When the main army pulled out, they left some light weapons behind to defend the boats from air attack – ZPUs and Bofors on trucks, and a few man-portable missiles... Our job was to keep enemy ground forces from getting to those." Her mouth became a thin line. "Errol found her on the third day after the dispersal." The Japanese woman returned to her seat on the bed with a sigh. "One of the other side's long-range recon teams had already picked her up, and those men had serious problems... They thought it would be funny to do some scrimshaw on her face before they killed her."

The word was unfamiliar to Azanael. "Skrem-shaa?"

"Carving." Mari covered the left side of her face with her hand. "Taking out their frustrations on her because she looked like an Arume, maybe. The freaks cut her up this much before Errol and Phil shot them."

"Errol and – wait, you mean... you knew the Darwin brothers _before_ you came here?"

"I knew their equivalents," the sniper confirmed. "Errol named the girl 'Nikka' after a whiskey he liked... He probably got away with it because it sounded Finnish." She absently ran her fingers over the remains of her clipped hair. "And nobody dared change it after he _heroically_ died in Helsinki."

"I'm sorry to hear that." It was trite response, and Azanael knew it.

"Mmf." Mari stopped to collect her recollections. "The twins put Nikka in my sleeping bag on the first night, and somehow she imprinted on me... No matter where we went after that, she always slept by my side."

"She loved you?"

"Calling it 'love' might be too simple," Mari mused. "Well, I know I was very fond of her. We fo-vo's all were... She became a kind of camp minder for us once she recovered, keeping things organized while we were off on the front lines." Another sigh. "I hope she's okay. Now that I'm gone, Phil is the only one left to watch out for her."

"The only one?" Azanael questioned. "But you had a lot of comrades – "

"Not the kind I would entrust her to." Mari's expression turned grim. "To us she was our Nikka, but to everyone else she was 'Puolikuu' or 'Polovina Lun'... 'Half-Moon'." The hunter paused to check the time on a military-looking wristwatch. "You don't have any idea how gosta are treated by the free forces, do you?"

"No..."

"They're not liked and not trusted. Liberated gosta are mostly used as cheap labor – cooks, typists, anything that frees up able bodies for war service... The leadership forbids them from carrying weapons or learning to defend themselves. They can't marry or have children, and the men resent them because they won't 'put out'." Mari's nose wrinkled. "The women are encouraged to treat them as if every gosta is a would-be rapist, but behind the lines it's the gosta who are victims. Most cases go unpunished... It's a miracle there are so few suicides in spite of the abuse."

Azanael's fingers tensed, digging into the cloth of her coverall legs. "That's horrible."

"Don't get self-righteous," Mari replied curtly. "This past winter, Phil and I were assigned to a sector where Arume troops overran one of our forward camps." Sliding into a crouch, she faced the bed and began removing the restraints on the weapon case. "They slaughtered the men, carried off the women and tied the gosta to trees along the perimeter... wrapped in explosives and wired to a remote trigger." She lifted the case with a grunt and set it on the bed next to her guest. "It snowed hard that night. We heard the cries for help until about oh-two-hundred hours."

Azanael averted her face as the green container was opened, as if expecting it to be packed with the severed heads of Mari's enemies. "...Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I want you to understand why I did what I did." From inside of the box came a rifle with a long barrel topped by a long flash hider. "Hold that."

"Uh..." It was so long that Azanael had to point it towards the ceiling, the butt placed between her knees. "Is this what you used?"

"No, _that_ was part of the welcome package when I joined Eto Delo."

That brought Azanael back to what she meant to ask in the first place. "Mari, why are you – no, _how_ did you get here?"

"The Arume tried to kill me in Finland." While she spoke, her hands were rapidly unpacking the other items in the wooden case. "Somebody else intervened and brought me here."

"Somebody else... You mean Kataphel and her allies."

Mari didn't take her eyes off the gleaming bayonet blade under her nose. "I don't know anyone by that name."

_Whoops._

Luckily for her, the forime seemed uninterested in exploiting her gaffe. "By the way," Mari remarked, returning the bayonet to its sheath and clipping it onto the side of her belt, "I hear you had one-on-one training with Keiko this afternoon. How was she?"

There it was again, that mystifying switch from ruthless killer to easygoing chatter which Azanael had seen with Keiko and the others after the Butcher was shot. "She's strange," the pilot mumbled. "She behaves very familiarly with me, like I'm someone she's known for a long time..."

"A long time," Mari echoed. "I wonder."

"What?"

"It's nothing." Mari plucked the rifle out of Azanael's hands and fitted a telescopic sight onto it. "Have you prepped your gear yet?"

"I did it before we took off," the Arume affirmed, privately wondering if she would ever be able to get the upper hand in these exchanges.

"Good." Mari checked her watch again. "So tell me, how did you come to the Liaison?"

"A friend in the bureaucracy arranged it," Azanael informed her. "She must have thought I would be safe there."

"And before that?"

The otherworlder shrugged. "I was a civil pilot... Cargo and small passenger flights."

"Uh-huh." Mari picked up a magazine, a curved steel box full of cartridges with bottle necks and beveled rims and three times the killing range of a navy pulse gun. "Do you keep in touch with any of the others?"

"Others... You mean, in Japan?"

"Yeah." The magazine went into a vest pocket. "Do you hear from Micchi or Tsubael anymore?"

"Actually, I... We're sort of a family now."

Those dark eyes finally met the blue-gray ones halfway. "You're _what?"_

"We stayed together after you left," Azanael explained quickly, hoping to tell the whole story before Mari could take it the wrong way. "Akane owns a restaurant, in Kobe, and Michiko and Tsubael live with her. I go there whenever I have time off."

"So Akane's dream came true." Mari smiled for the first time since the pair had begun talking. "What about Micchi, is she still writing?"

Azanael nodded. "Children's books, mostly... She really got interested in that after she had Yuko."

"Yuko..?"

"Michiko and Tsubael are married now." It seemed better to omit the details of how and why that happened. "Yuko will be six years old in a couple of months."

"Micchi's a mother?" The news drew a look of surprise and, thankfully, not of disapproval. "Then, what does Tsubael do?"

"She was, how do you say... She wrote computer programs. Then she was recalled to service at the same time as me, and put into the analysis division. I saw her here in the third layer, just this week, but only briefly."

"Mm... Anyone else?"

"Let me think... Hiroko runs the Funatsumaru company. She's lost so much weight, you wouldn't recognize her now. Her nieces work for Akane... Those three girls who were always swooning over Ekaril do, too. I keep forgetting their names."

"So have I." Mari closed the empty case. "How about Headmaster Fukamachi?"

"He was never the same after the... the 'questioning'," Azanael reported gravely. "He's become like a hermit. Akane visits him every two weeks."

"Too bad." The soft words were concluded by a low _rachak-click_ as the forime chambered a round and engaged the safety. "But I guess things have gotten better for most people over there."

"Maybe." The Arume swallowed. "Mari, what happened to Sugawara?"

"Ah..." Mari pushed the case back under her bunk before speaking further. "Sensei was with me until we got to Europe. When I joined the free armies, she volunteered for their intelligence service... After we pulled back from Helsinki, she was transferred off the front. I haven't heard anything since then." Mari bit her lip. "I try not to think about what could have happened."

"She's a smart woman," said Azanael, even as an image of the spy's clumsy schoolteacher persona flashed before her eyes. "I'm sure she's taking care of herself."

"Yeah... Hey, is Maiyama-sensei still around?"

The ace flier had met that shrill harridan face to face only once, and once was enough. "She moved away," Azanael replied. "I think she's in – "

She was interrupted by a burst of music from the airplane's public address system, an ear-blasting sample of Soviet kitsch rock selected explicitly because only the dead and the stone-deaf could possibly sleep through it. _"All passengers, all passengers,"_ a voice with a heavy Slavic accent recited. _"Final briefing with the boss begins in ten minutes. Repeat, final briefing in ten minutes."_

Mari slung the long rifle across her back. "Right on time."

Azanael stood aside as the other finished re-securing the green case. "Is it important?"

"Depends on how much the situation has changed... Let's go, before the seats are all taken."

Mari's hand was on the door when something compelled Azanael to speak out. "Mari... I really am glad you're all right."

"Don't get the wrong idea." Those chilly words froze the Arume in her tracks. "This is just my personal armistice... Maybe I've forgiven you, but my war isn't over yet."

* * *

"...And one last reminder while we're on that subject." Roland Schuhart wagged the tip of the pointer in his hand. "As I'm sure we all know, we can expect to encounter female combatants. Don't be tempted by them, no matter _what_ they take off."

There was laughter among the rows of men seated in front of him. Azanael didn't join in it. Neither did Mari, standing beside her at the back of the Antonov's briefing room, nor Karan and Phil Darwin, on Mari's other side. Just in front of Azanael, some of the gosta were quietly discussing their prospects of bedding the enemy's women.

"Next, I have a small update on our competition." Schuhart clicked the projector remote he carried in his other hand, splashing a photograph of a man with buzz-cut sandy hair and a strong jawline across the broad screen at the head of the chamber. "We've obtained confirmation that Owen Lyttleton will be the ground commander for Landline Transnational's attack on Shanghai... Phil, a few words for the newbies?"

"Sure." Phil went up to the front. "Lyttleton's a former Saffa army man. I fought with 'im in Liberia... Kinda ruthless, but he doesn't go fer the under'anded stuff."

"Just so," said the one-eyed man. "We expect that Lyttleton will focus on his own mission and not start trouble with us, but we should exercise caution if we do meet Landline forces in the op zone." He clicked the remote again, replacing the photo with a vector image of sinister-looking firearms. "We also know that Landline's personnel will primarily be using weapons which interchange mags and ammo with the enemy's, the same as we're doing. It's going to be one big Kalashnikov party out there."

"Don't worry about that," Mari muttered when Azanael squinted at the display, trying to tally the differences between the AMD-65 and the AIMS-74. "You won't be anywhere near those guys."

Schuhart swapped the picture for a satellite photo. "The latest forecast predicts heavy cloud cover on the op zone, with rain likely late in the day... Anybody with a leaky poncho, see the quartermaster before you ship out."

* * *

_Disused military airfield  
Zhejiang Province, China  
G-hour minus 02:24.16_

Mari wasn't used to patrolling in the open, with no camouflage and sparse cover. Every unfamiliar noise made her want to dive to the ground, her persistent instincts still accustomed to the ways of the winter war. For this reason it was probably better that she was assigned to the inner circle, following a tight path around the parked jets and helicopters, rather than the first guard line just inside the airfield's perimeter fence. Right now a pair of her new coworkers were passing along that route, heading in the other direction about ninety meters away.

"How's it look?"

Glancing over her shoulder, Mari found Schuhart coming up from the rear. He was dressed for battle like herself and the others, even though she knew for a fact that he was going to be supervising the operation from a safe distance at the support base. "It's the same as before," the sniper said. "We're watching them, they're watching us."

"So I hear."

The warlord's soldiers were out there, monitoring their visitors from the darkness beyond the reach of the floodlights. "Has there been any sign of trouble?"

"Nothing so far." The varnished plywood stock of Schuhart's rifle took on an almost greasy sheen in the yellow glare of the scattered sodium-vapor work lamps. "I just thought I'd have a look around."

Mari felt a little better with his company. "You really like to do things hands-on..."

"An arms dealer who can't shoot is like a car dealer who can't drive," her employer chuckled. "Don't you think?"

"Mm-hm."

They walked together in silence for a minute before Schuhart broached a new subject. "So... have you talked to the flight chief?"

"A little." Mari turned about and walked backwards for a few steps, checking the rear. "Are you sure it was a good idea to bring her?"

"It was KK's idea," the man grumbled, "and I signed off on it because Dobrovolskiy isn't combat qualified. I don't think you need to worry about Azanael – she's got the easiest part of this run... As long as she watches out for Dushkas, anyway."

Mari nodded at that. In the Scandinavian campaign, the DShK heavy machine gun had been a common and dependable friend. In North Korean hands it would be a common and vicious opponent, though if her impression of Schuhart's methods was correct, 'Dushka' wouldn't remain in enemy possession for much longer. "You've written salvage rights into the contract," she pressed, watching him closely. "Am I right?"

"Damn straight," the man declared. "Nerv can't match the Liaison's kind of funding, so we'll have to take a loss in the short term. Receiving the Norks' equipment softens the blow a bit... And, ideally, a good performance now will draw more clients later."

"Of course."

"Be nice to have some peace and quiet for a change, though. Lately it's been one damn thing right after another – sky eyes, warlords, Norks, sky eyes again, Norks again..." Schuhart jabbed the AK-74 forwards, as if to thrust an imaginary bayonet at an imaginary foe. "I shouldn't get my hopes up. Odds are good for more warlord trouble as soon as this is over." His fingers toyed with the sight leaf and slider. "If we don't get a break before the next action, I'll have to pull KK off the line for a while."

Mari felt a pang of guilt mixed with wary curiosity. "Is she all right?"

"She's fine right now," said Schuhart. "It's the usual trouble, nothing to do with yesterday."

_The usual trouble._ Mari had heard that Eto Delo's operations director suffered from some intermittent malady of the mind, but those in the know were few in number and tight-lipped on the subject. Piecing together scraps of gossip heard from the gosta, the Japanese woman had thought it might be a head injury... but all bets were off after the encounter in the shower. "What _is_ she?"

It was an ill-considered question, blurted out on the spur of the moment, but the arms dealer took it in stride. "That's for KK to tell you herself," said he. "If and when she decides she's ready to talk about it."

"Oh..." The conversation petered out again. Mari kept walking, kept her eyes on the perimeter, but she could no longer block out the remaining question which presented itself to her more and more insistently. "Schuhart?"

"Hm?"

"Why am I here?"

"Because you're good at what you do," Schuhart returned without missing a beat. "Well, that and to keep you close by in case the Butcher orders a retaliation." He stretched one arm, transferred the assault rifle between hands, and stretched the other arm. "But there won't be much sympathy for her if she attacks us when we're a valued ally undertaking actions beneficial to Arume interests."

"I hope so," Mari concurred, "but that's not what I meant." They came to the end of this leg in the patrol route. Mari turned sharply, following a new path which would carry her past the nose of the Antonov and the two Ilyushin transports accompanying it. Here, at the farthest distance from the bustle and din of the main staging area, it was possible to speak quietly. "What do your _friends_ need me for?"

"Ah." Schuhart said no more for a minute... and then one minute became two, and two became three. "Yui will kick my ass if she finds out I told you this," he warned, just when Mari was about to apologize for overstepping the ambiguous bounds, "but what the hell, she brings me so much trouble already." Looking forwards, he noticed a flat stone lying on the tarmac and bent to pick it up. "It's not what they need you for, it's what they _might_ need you for."

"What do you mean?"

"Your girlfriend stumbled across something they want." The limping man's volume dropped so low that Mari's ears strained to make out his words. "All the data has been lost, except a summary relayed to Arume command by Shivariel." There was an elongate puddle of water off to the left, formed by rain collecting in a depression in the runway surface. Schuhart headed towards it. "The sky eyes still have no idea how important it is..."

Leaving the thought incomplete, he flicked his wrist and the stone skipped across the shallow pool, spawning concentric rings which overlapped and engulfed one another as their progenitor landed with a final splash and sank from view.


	38. Thing What Kicks

(Okay, so I was wrong.)

_Part 33: The Little Shiny Thing What Kicks Our Asses_

_Pinghu, Zhejiang Province, China  
G-hour plus 00:31:20  
April 29th, 2016_

The first sign of overt resistance appeared on Azanael's heads-up display just after Maksim asked her whether Arume pilots recorded their kill tallies. She could have taken these enemies alone in _Getour_, and felt confident that the Kamov would also suffice for such a battle, but she had been ordered to bypass the opening confrontation, her payload reserved for other targets. She nosed down, leveling off once the Ka-50G was skimming low over the shallow waves of Hangzhou Bay.

_"Okay, we have two big fish and three small fish... Ramrod Two, Ramrod Four, you take the Hind on the left. Ramrod Three, you take the Hind on the right with me."_

The North Koreans had come to Shanghai as boat people, hundreds of them crowded onto a flotilla of rust-bucket cargo ships. They came, ostensibly, because they were unable to accept the new order in their homeland or because they feared prosecution by the Republic of Korea. Some had been in Shanghai almost since the day RoK troops crossed the demilitarized zone, while thousands more had gradually migrated from Dandong, Weihai and other points of arrival. The exiles found menial employment on the streets of the ally which had abandoned their beloved Democratic People's Republic in its hour of need, sullenly withdrawing to their floating fortresses when their work was done.

_"Copy, Ramrod Leader."_

In the six years since they'd come here, the local authorities never once searched those hulks anchored in the mouth of the Yangzi. In the six years since the North Koreans left their native peninsula, the victorious Republic's pencil-pushers never noticed that a pair of gunships had vanished from DPRK inventory without a trace. In the six years since the exodus, hundreds of small arms and thousands of shells and cartridges had been smuggled and stockpiled in preparation for this three-pronged retaliation.

_"This is Ramrod Two. I have weapon lock."_

The two Mi-35s weren't Azanael's problem. Ramrod Wing would deal with them, as well as the handful of hastily up-gunned transports which the Koreans had appropriated from Shanghai's defenders. After opening the way, they were going to cut north to the Nerv base near the shore of Dianshan Lake, on the west side of the city, and relieve its exhausted security forces. When the attack party was finished there, assuming all went as planned, Keiko would lead the armed helicopters on what she gleefully dubbed a 'bruise cruise'.

_"Ramrod Leader, Ramrod Three is waiting on your shot."_

Azanael and her comrades were welcome to join in, the big woman had told them, if they still had ammo to spare after their own run. While the others met the North Koreans head-on, Buster Wing would fly northeast along the shore, hook around the tip of the Shanghai peninsula, and destroy the enemy's ships in the channel between Chongming Island and Shanghai proper. To accomplish that, her stacked-rotor steed carried eight guided missiles and a pair of 23mm gun pods on its wing hardpoints, plus the standard 30mm autocannon mounted on the fuselage. The Mi-28N advancing parallel to her on the Kamov's left flank was similarly fitted.

_"Stand by, Ramrod Three. Skytrain Wing, reduce your speed a little."_

The Arume hadn't gotten much opportunity to become acquainted with Buster One's crew. The pilot, Anastasiya, was a thirty-something year old Belarusian with curling hair. She was polite and helpful when Azanael met her on the ground, but made it firmly clear that she wanted no personal advances. Maksim, her gunner, was a prankster in his mid-fifties with brawny tattoo-covered forearms and eyebrows which met in the center. He was the personification of the virtual opponents Azanael had been training against since before Onomil took her virginity, a veteran who'd started out as a young Soviet Air Force pilot flying hunter-killer sweeps in the mountains of Afghanistan.

_"Skytrain One, start the tape on my mark."_

Maksim had told the alien a little about those days during the night before their departure from Hong Kong, mostly in the form of chilling anecdotes which he used to illustrate his hard-learned counsel on dealing with the anticipated threats. It was on his advice that Azanael had dumped some of the rations from her bailout kit and replaced them with extra magazines for the company-issued emergency weapon. She had no intention of actually _using_ the damned thing, as her grudging appreciation of forime technology did not extend to the noisy, fireball-spewing carbine.

_"All right, boys and girls."_ Keiko's voice was relaxed, perfectly confident. _"Let's show these posers some old school style – three... two... one..."_

* * *

_"Vstavaaay, strana ogromnaya... Vstavaaay na smertnyy boy! S fashiiistskoy siloy tyomnoyu... S proklyaaatoyu ordoy!"_

"Going out loud and clear," said Schuhart with satisfaction. He turned the music volume down, then placed his hands on the keyboard of the laptop on the handcart in front of him. "And the crowd goes _wild."_

Richardson watched him with curiosity for a few seconds. The Antonov and the Ilyushins were parked and unpacked, and had perfectly good operations centers fitted inside, yet her benefactor preferred to conduct his work from the tarmac. She made a mental note to ask about it later and turned away.

The man had other plans. "Come over here," he called, beckoning to her and Harrington. "You might learn something from this." He moved to the side as the gosta obeyed, allowing them to see that the computer's screen displayed a monochromatic video stream, a live feed from the nose camera on Ramrod 2.

As the girls watched, the gunship swung to the left, tracking an Mi-8 which still wore its former Free City insignia. There was a muffled _brrrrrrrt_ as the Mi-24P met it head-on, the bigger Mil's double-barreled cannon vomiting a stream of shells straight into the target's cockpit. The Mi-8 veered away, simultaneously rolling onto its side, and disappeared from view.

"Ka-_boom,"_ said Schuhart, reaching for the water bottle behind the laptop. "Looks like the upgrades are paying off." He reduced the video from fullscreen to a window. "What's the score, Ramrod Leader?"

_"That's a clean sweep,"_ Keiko reported. _"The jammers worked like a charm... One of the big fish is trying to make a dead-stick landing. You want some prisoners?"_

"If you think it's safe, go for it. All other units, proceed with the mission."

* * *

Azanael breathed a quiet sigh of relief – so far, so good.

Now Schuhart's attention shifted towards her sector. _"Buster Wing, how's it look on your side?"_

_"No sign of the enemy,"_ Anastasiya replied. _"I cannot see any movement on the shore or on the water."_

_"Copy, Buster One... Buster Two, anything to add?"_

Azanael saw gray clouds above. She saw gray waters below. She saw deserted shoreline to her left. That was all. "Nothing..."

_"Ramrod Wing, Skytrain Wing, proceeding to the LZ. Watch those scanners, people."_

Taking out the North Korean helicopters had been the easy part. The invaders had seized some heavier missiles from Shanghai's defenders, Chinese copies of the aging S-75, but Eto Delo's attack party was flying too low to be targeted by them. Available intelligence suggested that the enemy also had access to a significant quantity of shoulder-launched Strela-2 heatseekers – or rather, the Chinese and Korean imitations thereof – but those could be deflected even by crude countermeasures. The real threat came from camouflaged anti-aircraft guns, which weren't affected by high-tech jamming.

Schuhart's joke from the previous night had been an apt one: the legacies of the USSR were everywhere in this operation. Just as well, Azanael thought: the state of affairs meant that her old training was still useful, and her fellow pilots would also know what to expect. Judging by the steady flow of radio chatter in her ears, all was going as planned on the landward side.

_"Ramrod Leader to Command, I'm taking three KPAF prisoners on board. Will rejoin the wing ASAP."_

_"Copy, KK. They giving you much trouble?"_

_"Negative. Phil put the fear in 'em."_

_"How does their big fish look?"_

_"Needs TLC, but I don't see anything that can't be fixed."_

_"Noted. Carry on."_

This Shanghai didn't look much like the one Azanael had visited in the second layer. That city had been pounded to rubble during the invasion, followed up by a kaijin infestation which delayed resettlement efforts for years afterward. This Shanghai, by contrast, had a crust of abandoned ruins along the shore, but beyond that lay the heart of a vibrant, modern metropolis... or at least that was how she imagined it, since the city looked pretty dead right now. A large portion of the population had fled before the North Koreans could corral them, though there were many more still trapped inside. Would they hear the music, the ominous strains blaring from the approaching choppers' belly-mounted speakers, and know that help was coming? Would the Koreans hear it and shiver in fear?

_"Pust yaaarost blagorodnaya... Vskipaaaaayet, kak volnaaaaa – iiidyot voyna narodnaya... Svyashchennaya voyna!"_

Azanael herself had shivered a little when the song began: it was a recurring theme in her nightmares ever since she'd given in to Elaqebil's pressure and watched _Ostfront_. However excellent the acting in the series might have been, the unflinching depictions of brutality only left her nauseous and fervently uninterested in learning more about that conflict... But after hearing Mari's offhand remarks about the dying embers of war back in the second layer, she would in no way be surprised to see the forime sit through the whole program without flinching once.

_"Gniloooy fashistskoy nechisti... Zagooonim pulyu v lob! Otreeebyu chelovechestva... Skoloootim krepkiy grob!"_

Things started to pick up again as the faint chorus repeated for the fifth time. _"Buster One here,"_ Anastasiya called. _"I see a small ship coming out of the Yangzi channel."_

_"Copy, Buster One. Good view from your camera... Looks like the Norks have taken over a Chinese trawler. I see a ZPU on the bow and another ZPU behind the bridge."_

Just as they were told to expect in the pre-flight briefing, Azanael recalled. She fixed her own targeting camera on the vessel and zoomed in, a hand clutching her control stick tightly. The trawler was a plodding craft with a rust-streaked green hull, its illegible name painted in white behind an anchor swinging from a corroded hawsepipe. The Arume could clearly see the quadruple-barreled 14.5mm assembly mounted on the high forecastle, and its twin halfway up the back of the superstructure at the stern. The Koreans shouldn't be able to depress their guns low enough to fire on her while she was hugging the water – and would do serious damage to their own gunwales if they tried it – but she wasn't in a gambling mood. "Request permission to engage."

There was an audible pause before Schuhart responded. _"Uh... Negative, Buster Two, hold your fire. Can you make out what they're doing amidships?"_

At this speed, the window of opportunity was closing fast. Azanael nudged the Kamov to the right, putting some distance between it and the shark-faced Mi-28 and gaining a little more time. "They're bringing people onto the top decks," she answered tersely. "Twenty... no, thirty... More than thirty."

_"Dammit... Buster Wing, do not – I repeat, do not – engage the trawler. Bypass it and continue your mission."_

Anastasiya sounded bored. _"Acknowledged."_

"Roger," Azanael muttered, pushing her machine back to maximum speed. "Holding fire." If the North Koreans thought they would be free to shoot at her with impunity, however, they were sorely mistaken. "Command, Buster Two requests permission to make a flyby of the trawler."

_"Granted, but no fancy stuff... All units, be advised that enemy forces may be using civilian hostages as shields. Double-check your targets before you light 'em up."_

A missile streaked out from the ship's low central deck, flying with the distinctive wobble of a Strela. The Kamov's infrared jammer suite, already configured to deal with this exact hazard, quickly disrupted its guidance and sent the rocket blindly tumbling out to sea. Azanael could see individual enemies scrambling about with more of the long launcher tubes as she circled around the bow of the lumbering vessel, rotating the Ka-50 to keep its menacing nose pointed towards the Koreans. Rejoining the Mi-28 on the other side, she corrected her course and flew onwards. The invaders didn't waste another missile on her, and quickly disappeared behind the Shanghai headland.

_"Ramrod Leader to Command, LZ is clear. I see friendlies on the ground."_

_"They see you too... Skytrain Wing is cleared to land. We're setting up a direct comms link for you now."_

_"Good to hear. Any word on hostiles?"_

_"One skirmish with a Nork probe at about, uh, about oh-five-twenty hours. It's been quiet since then."_

_"Copy... Ramrod Wing, perimeter circuit. Follow my lead."_

The mouth of the Yangzi was dead ahead now. "Command, Buster Wing is approaching Hengsha Island. No further enemy activity."

_"Copy, Buster Two. Do you have a visual on your targets?"_

"Negative, no vis – "

There was a flash of green light.

* * *

Mari heard the scream of agony from all the way across the runway. Disregarding her assigned duties, she left her patrol route and sprinted towards Schuhart and his gosta audience. "Buster Two, are you hit?" the man demanded. "Buster Two, come in!"

_"I can't see."_ Azanael wasn't panicking, not yet, but Mari could hear the stress patterns in her breathing. _"I can't see anything..."_

"I've still got your camera feed," Schuhart reassured her. "Bring your nose up a little and turn right... Keep turning... Good, now hold it steady. We'll get you out of there." His typing speed doubled. "Buster One, did you see the hit?"

_"Affirmative, Command. The enemy is using a laser weapon. I repeat, a laser weapon. We are flying evasive patterns."_

"I copy. Buster Wing, abort mission. Stay with the casualty, Buster One." _Clickety-click-tap-tap-click!_ "All units, all units, we have one bird flying blind. If you pick up any lasers, even if it's just a pocket pointer, evade immediately." Schuhart glanced behind himself. "Richardson, get the girls together – light kit with gas masks and flotation vests. Grab Karan, too." He thumbed the talk switch on his personal radio. "Smirnov, wake up Chugainov and Shevchenko, send them down here on the double, and inform the Hangzhou shore patrol that we'll be borrowing their new Twin Hueys."

Now that Richardson and Harrington had gone, Mari was alone with the boss. Instead of waving her off, he motioned for her to come watch the laptop screen. "Is she – "

"Shh." Schuhart held up a hand. "Lukin, can you fill in for me? ...Thanks. All units, this is Schuhart. I'm delegating anchor control to Lukin until further notice. You go easy on him, KK."

_"Will do, Roland."_

"Okay," the arms dealer said under his breath, fingers skipping over the keyboard. "Now the fun _really_ starts..."

* * *

Azanael's eyes watered uncontrollably from the pain, the raw burning that started at her irises and seemed to extend all the way into the visual cortices at the back of her skull. She couldn't understand it, couldn't grasp just how suddenly she had gone from empress of the skies to helpless cripple, trapped in a coffin hurtling through the air at three hundred kilometers per hour.

_"Stay calm, Flight Chief."_ Somehow that gruff voice in her ears brought relief, rather than additional disquiet. _"I've switched you over to the secondary channel... I can't fly by wireless, but I can access some of your subsystems. I'll help you as much as I can from here."_

The knowledge that it was her nominal employer who was holding her hand only increased the feeling of humiliation. "I'm sorry..."

_"Not now, Chief."_ Schuhart, conversely, was all business. _"You're on open water. Make a gentle turn to the right... That's good. I'm going to send Buster One ahead of you to distract the trawler. Once you're past it, you'll be home free."_

"Understood."

* * *

"...Just this once, I'm glad it's a Fifty-G."

Back in the second layer, the Kamov's lineage started and ended with the plain Ka-50. "Why's that?" Mari inquired softly.

"It's a test type." Schuhart spoke without taking his eyes off the flat display. "The serial model, the Fifty-D, doesn't support remote overrides."

"What can you do with it?"

"Enough, I hope." He placed his fingertips on the arrow keys, and the remote camera began to pan sideways. "Okay, there's the trawler. A little to the left, Chief... Great." _Tap-click!_ "Buster One, get that tub's attention."

_"On it."_

"They're firing," Mari warned.

"I see them." Schuhart turned the camera so that the Mi-28 was visible. A pair of missiles streaked past it in the background, clear misses both. "Countermeasures effective."

_"They are aiming at Buster Two now."_

"Copy." The wireless operator pressed a three-key macro. "Popping flares."

The North Koreans' response to the flares was to fire six more Strelas all at once.

* * *

Azanael heard a loud bang and felt the airframe jolt around her, followed by heavy vibration. "I'm hit!"

_"Are you injured?"_

"No."

_"Good... Sorry, but it looks like you might not make it to Hangzhou."_ There was a muffled beeping on Schuhart's end of the link. _"Turn right again... Okay, stop. Now drop your landing gear and gain a little more altitude. We'll try for a pickup in Fengxian. There's plenty of open ground, so don't worry."_

In another time, another place, she might have laughed at that.

* * *

"Buster One, I need you to find an LZ away from the shore, with enough room for a short stop plus pickup space."

_"Affirmative."_

Mari hoped Schuhart could make sense of the diagnostic text overlaid on the video feed, because the cryptic Cyrillic meant nothing to her. "How bad is it?"

"I dunno yet... The way she's shaking, it's either the blades or the transmission. Probably caught some fragments from an airburst."

"Aren't they armored?"

"Factory claims they're rated for up to twenty-three millimeter." The laptop beeped again. "Cross your fingers and hope it holds together long enough to get her out."

_"This is Buster One,"_ Anastasiya called. _"I have located a landing site. Coordinates are – "_

"I've got it. Relative to Buster Two, that would be... All right. Flight Chief, make a gentle drift to the left... Very good. Straighten out and reduce speed." Schuhart quickly changed channels. "Ramrod Leader, what's your status?"

_"Going by the numbers, Roland. What about you?"_

"Still guiding our guest ace. Once she's on the ground, I'm going to take the girls and go deal with that Nork gunboat."

_"Cool. You want any backup?"_

"Negative. Stay on task."

_"Suit yourself."_

Schuhart switched back to Azanael. "Just a little further, Chief." He glanced away, looking at the fifteen gosta, one Indian and two Russians who had assembled in the meantime. "Shevchenko, Chugainov, we're borrowing a couple of imported choppers from the local authorities for this run." The leader pointed to the two machines in blue-on-white livery which sat at the edge of the rollout strip on the far end of the runway. "Go start 'em up. We'll do the briefing on the fly."

* * *

Azanael was starting to feel anxious again. "Are you still there?"

_"Yeah, I'm here... Okay, your LZ is straight ahead. Start your descent... A little slower, that's good... Come right just a hair... You're right over the LZ now. You can drop straight onto it... Two meters... One and a half... One meter..."_

The Kamov lurched, giving the Arume precious tactile feedback. "I'm on the ground... Applying brakes."

_"Well done... Once you're stopped, power down and get ready to go. Buster One will pick you up as soon as they've finished their safety sweep."_

The Arume let out a long sigh of relief. "Understood... Thank you."

_"No need. I have to deal with some other stuff now, so I'm going to switch you back to the main channel. KK and Lukin will look after you, all right? We'll see you back at field HQ."_

"All right..."

She'd run the shutdown procedure enough times in the simulator to do it without sight. Azanael ran through the steps, waited until the damaged Kamov had gone silent, and then unbuckled herself and reached for the bailout kit. A warm breeze caressed her face when she raised the canopy, clearing out the smells of sweat and fear from the cockpit. The alien could hear the friendly Mi-28 circling not far away as she slung the kit over her shoulder and gingerly began her climb to freedom.

A brief exploration with her hands informed Azanael that she had been guided to land in a field of uncut grass. It felt good to run her fingers over the long slender blades, especially after the cramps which had developed from her white-knuckle piloting. Surely it would feel even better to just flop down and lie there... but not when she was blind and lost in enemy territory. Azanael sat cross-legged underneath the helicopter and unzipped the bailout kit's outer cover. There was a personal radio inside, but its controls were unfamiliar and it had been stored without the necessary encryption key preset. It was useless to her in her present state, so she put it back and pulled out a different package.

The AKS-74U was stored in a cotton pouch with a large flap, tied around the middle, and accompanied by a smaller pouch which held a lubricant bottle and four magazines made of a garish orange plastic. Discarding food from the kit yielded enough space for two more, fastened one-up-one-down with blue electrical tape. Azanael started with the latter, pinching her fingers twice in the process, but it proved to be a superfluous exercise: Buster One was already coming in to land by the time she had finished.

She hadn't needed it after all... In fact, she hadn't fired a single shot during the entire mission.

* * *

Richardson liked simple plans. The plan she and her sisters were executing now was a simple one. Therefore she felt good about it.

There were six other gosta sitting around her on the UH-1N's riveted cabin floor, making final checks on their equipment. Schuhart stood at the forward end, his leg brace discarded in favor of the old booster drug remedy, observing their target through the windshield. Chugainov handled the machine, a sold-as-surplus South Korean unit freshly dubbed 'Mekong One', with great finesse, skimming even closer to the water than Buster Wing had.

"Masks on!" Schuhart's voice was loud, but not an outright shout.

Richardson quickly unfolded the rubber and plastic device, pressed it over her face and cinched the straps behind her head, under the lip of her helmet. Two deep breaths, then a thumbs-up.

"Everyone ready? Good!" Schuhart adjusted his own filter, then pressed his radio headset tighter against his ear. "Mekong Wing, begin approach. Buster One, watch our backs... Nice and tight, people!"

* * *

Mari and Karan watched intently through Mekong Two's side windows as the Mi-28 darted past them, ready to fend off any more Strelas. The remaining gosta were grouped around them, already in their assigned positions.

_"Steady,"_ Schuhart advised in her ears. _"Let them think we're just making another flyby..."_

The armed trawler had gone in circles for a little while, probably watching while Buster One picked up Azanael, and was now motoring eastwards, fleeing back to the shelter of the Yangzi channel. Coming up from almost directly astern, the helicopters were presented with a relatively narrow profile: all the better, since it limited the available space for the Koreans to shoot at them from.

_"Mekong Wing, the giggling gull is coming in to roost."_

Mari wished the man wouldn't use such obscure code phrases, especially on short notice. It was a good thing that Karan was able to keep track of them. "The make 'n' break is running strong," he replied.

* * *

"Hoo-ah." Schuhart briskly rolled the side door open as the Huey deviated slightly from its course, then braced himself with one hand on the back of the empty copilot's seat and the other on his Ithaca Stakeout. "Wait for it..."

Richardson's own hand tingled as she pressed it against Harrington's back. The prone girl stiffened, her movements becoming puppet-like as her brain's processing capacity was diverted to handle the influx of sensory information from her partner. The kneeling gosta kept her wide eyes fixed on the trawler, her sight complimenting the other's narrow view through her telescopic sight.

"HIT THE DECK, BURT – TIME TO EAT!"

Harrington's SVD commenced the engagement without more ado.

* * *

Sniping from a helicopter wasn't one of Mari's usual duties and she expected it to be realistically useful only for long-range suppression, even with the Type 79's wooden fore-end nestled upon an improvised rest made from an inflatable cushion. Her problems were compounded by Shevchenko, whose flying was fearless but not very smooth.

Undeterred, she gritted her teeth and pressed her face against the stock's cheekpiece. She barely heard her own muzzle blast under the din of the rotor blades and the heavy earphones.

* * *

There was a rapid _pakh-pakh-pakh_ on Richardson's right as Korth, Rubin and Carcano peppered the trawler's after decks with 5.45mm rounds, puffs and trails of swirling ball powder smoke wafting from muzzle brakes. "GOOD WORK!" Schuhart bellowed. "MEKONG TWO, HOLD YOUR FIRE! TAKE US IN, CHUGAINOV!"

The helicopter began to drift sideways, fast catching up to the retreating vessel. At shorter ranges, Richardson was more useful as a standalone fighter: she drew back her linking hand and took up her own weapon. Like most of her siblings she enjoyed a technological advantage over the Koreans in the form of a 1P29 daylight optical sight, but only she and the second squad's Lebel had the additional upgrade of an underbarrel grenade launcher.

Schuhart expected her to make full use of it, too: "RICHARSON, LOAD A GAS ROUND! HARRINGTON, TAKE OUT ANY NORK WHO SO MUCH AS _LOOKS_ AT THAT ZPU!"

"Roger," the latter gosta replied coolly, rocking a full magazine into place.

Richardson extracted a cylindrical caseless grenade from her secondary ammunition pack and pressed it into the GP-30's muzzle. "...Gas round ready!"

Schuhart inserted a gray shell into his shotgun and pumped it, ejecting a red shell into the cup holder attached to the inside of the fuselage wall. As the Huey rose above the trawler's stern rail, he raised the barrel and fired at one of the bridge windows beside the engine exhaust stack, shattering the glass. "RICHARDSON! HOLE IN ONE!" _Shak-chak!_ "LET'S GO, FIRST SQUAD!"

* * *

"He jumped," Mari muttered incredulously. "That fool is – "

"...Is doing what he planned to do," Karan concluded. "Command, Mekong Wing's first squad is boarding the trawler... Shevchenko, take us in when Mekong One has pulled back."

"Affirmative."

"RPG, starboard quarter!" There was a chatter on Mari's left as Krag and Johnson left off short bursts with their heavy-barrel Kalashnikovs, snap-on deflectors sparing the sniper from being pelted with spent casings. "...Got him!"

* * *

Being a culture with a strong nautical heritage, the Arume had several words for what forime referred to as 'sea legs'. The gosta were effectively born with sea legs of their own, and the gentle pitching of the trawler's deck presented no difficulties to them. As Mekong One pulled away, the racket of turbines and rotor wash faded enough that Richardson could hear her sisters' boots ringing on the steel deck and the gentle hiss of her breath passing through the mask's filters.

Uncle Roland was on a roll. "Carcano, Webley, secure the left flank! Korth, Rubin, secure the right! Krieghoff, lock down that ZPU! Richardson, Harrington, we're taking the bridge!"

Harrington had slung the long Dragunov across her back and switched to her backup piece before leaving the Huey. "We're with you," she replied, unfolding the Skorpion's stock as Richardson followed Schuhart and Krieghoff up the ladder to the superstructure's middle-tier deck, where the AA gun was mounted.

A coughing North Korean stumbled out of the bridge one level above them, wreathed in wisps of tear gas. Schuhart blasted him with the Ithaca and he toppled over the handrail, landing with a crunch of bone. "Left side entry," the arms dealer barked, topping off his magazine while Krieghoff pushed another dead man out of the quadruple cannon's gunner seat. "Richardson, cover us!"

"Ready!"

Schuhart went up the next ladder, Harrington close behind. The former waited for the latter to join him, then kicked open the unlatched door to the bridge and advanced, shotgun at the ready. Just as the gosta began to follow him, he suddenly jumped back. "Stop – " _Krang-g-g!_ "...Hammer time!"

"Wha..?" Richardson blinked as the man lunged inside – what had just happened? There was a scuffle, four shotgun reports in rapid succession, and then the fast snapping of a pistol as Harrington charged in to rescue her employer. Richardson scanned the other windows, looking for clues to what was occurring within.

"They're killing the hostages!" Schuhart roared. "Everybody move up!"

"..!" Richardson and Krieghoff raced for the ladder. The former got there first, hooking her forearm through her rifle sling and taking the rungs two at a time. The first thing she saw as she reached the top was a massive dent in the left edge of the door frame, enough to prevent the door from being completely shut. There was a dead man lying on his back in a creeping pool of blood on the other side of the entryway, a heavy sledgehammer resting across his knees. He was short, like all the other North Koreans she had seen thus far, but heavily muscled, and wore a gas mask which had done nothing to save him from the buckshot lodged in his chest.

Turning to the right, she saw two more dead men on the deck and Schuhart's Stakeout lying on the instrument console beside the steering wheel. The tear gas had mostly blown out of the enclosed space thanks to the rising count of broken windows. Richardson's predecessors were busy firing at the enemies on the forward decks through ports lined with jagged points and edges, Harrington with her sniper rifle and Schuhart with a Korean AK-74 clone.

"HERE'S TO YOUR DEAR FAT MIDGET LEADER!" _Pakh-pakh-pakh-pakh-pakh!_ "AND HIS PLATFORM SHOES, TOO!"

One of the panes close to Richardson had been spiderweb-cracked by a stray bullet. She smashed out the remaining glass with the butt of her weapon and took up a firing stance. "Krieghoff, go to the right side!"

"I'm on it!"

Many of the civilian captives were women, many more were children, and all were helpless, their hands tied and ankles hobbled. Most of them had been shot already, and several of the Kimists were still expending ammunition on them even as their own comrades were being steadily picked off by the boarding party. The sight made Richardson's alien blood boil.

* * *

"Go, go, go!" Karan leaped from the second Huey and landed with a grunt. "Mariko," he ordered as the others' feet thudded on the deck behind him, "take Borchardt, Krag, Vickers and Mannlicher and clear the right side! Johnson, Lebel, Benelli, Astra – follow me!"

Mari quickly fixed her bayonet. "Krag, you're on point!"

"Roger." Krag sighted in with her RPK and advanced into the narrow space between the trawler's superstructure and the starboard gunwale, stepping over a cooling Korean and his rocket launcher.

Mari could still hear Karan's voice through her radio. _"Mekong Wing, stand by to evacuate wounded."_

_"I copy,"_ Chugainov answered. _"Standing by."_

_"Mekong Two, stand – "_

_"Uwaaaagh!"_

_"Pull up! PULL UP!"_

Mari looked back in time to see the Huey's rotor blades strike the surface of the water. The sudden resistance against the engines' high torque ripped the machine apart in moments.

_"Mekong One is down! Mekong One is down!"_ Shevchenko banked erratically. _"I am being attacked with a laser!"_

The Mi-28 ceased circling and climbed into the sky, speeding north towards the Shanghai shore. _"I have located the enemy,"_ Anastasiya reported. _"We will destroy them."_

"Miss Mariko," Krag prompted in her usual monotone, "we need to keep moving."

"Right..." Mari reluctantly turned her back on the sinking wreck and its corona of white foam. "Let's go."

The firefight was over by the time they reached the midship deck, littered with corpses and awash with fresh blood. Karan and his team were checking the bodies one by one. "What a mess," the Indian muttered. "Mekong Two, do you see any sign of Chugainov?"

_"Nothing... There is nothing."_

"Damn it... Schuhart, how do things look up there?"

"The instruments are working," the one-eyed man reported. "I'm setting a course for Hangzhou. Is Mariko with you?"

"I'm down here."

"So you are. Search the lower decks – I want this tub checked end-to-end."

"Roger..."

* * *

"Pfwah..!" Schuhart pulled off his gas mask and laid it beside his shotgun. "The air's clear, girls."

Richardson and the others removed their own respirators. Stepping forwards, the gosta could see Karan and some of her siblings on the foredeck, still searching for survivors. It didn't look as if they were having much luck in that endeavor. "Uncle Roland," she asked quietly, "can you really drive a boat?"

"Better than I can drive a car." Schuhart pulled a full magazine – made of ribbed metal, in contrast to the Soviet plastic kinds used by his employees – from the blood-spattered pouch under his arm and knocked the empty one out of his rifle. "We've got radar and a depth sounder, so I think we'll be okay."

"What will we do now?" Krieghoff asked.

"I'm still working on that... Any civvies alive down there, Karan?"

"None... Most of them were shot through the head. No chance of survival."

"The fucking fanatics actually went through with it." The piratical-looking helmsman placed the Type 88 next to his other equipment and fiddled with his headset. "Return to base, Mekong Two. There's nothing else you can do here."

_"Roger."_

"Buster One, what's your status?"

_"The enemy is moving through the canals in motor boats... I see hostages in the boats."_

"These monkeys aren't big on variety," Schuhart observed caustically. "Let 'em go and head for home, Buster One. We still need to get that sky eyes to a doctor."

_"I copy. Breaking off pursuit and... Chyort! Ya shchas – "_ There was a bang loud enough to make Richardson flinch, then a burst of garbled Russian mixed with heavy static, then a frightening silence.

"Buster One, come in... Buster One, come in please... Lukin, is Buster One still on the board?"

_"Negative... It appears there was total loss of power."_

The shoreline which had been on the left side when they boarded the trawler now lay to their right. Richardson crossed to that side of the bridge and looked out, but couldn't see any definite signs of the stricken helicopter.

"Ramrod Leader, we have another bird down and KPA on the ground in force. Can you divert to Fengxian District?"

_"I can try,"_ Keiko responded gamely. _"Stand by."_

Richardson hated this oppressive atmosphere. So, it seemed, did Harrington. "Uncle Roland, what did we do wrong?"

"You didn't do anything wrong." Schuhart squinted as the shifting wind blew into his face. "I did."

_"Son of a BITCH!"_ The shout was loud enough to make even Schuhart wince. _"I'm being lit up from four directions! They've got beam-riding SAMs!"_

"Get out of there, KK." The hands on the wheel were turning white from clenching so hard. "Ramrod Wing, Skytrain Wing, return to base at maximum speed."

_"Roger,"_ Keiko sighed. _"Okay, I think we're clear. Heading back to base... Should I tell the Nerv guys we're canceling the supply drops?"_

The answer to that was as blunt as could be. "We're not canceling anything."

_"That's more like it... By the way, Phil got that Nork pilot to talk. He claims his chopper wasn't damaged at all – the assholes sent him out with no ammo. When he saw that we were calling their bluff, he decided to bug out."_

"Get to the point, KK."

_"I am. If this guy is telling the truth, that gunship doesn't have a scratch on it. What say I have Pavel drop me off and bring it back?"_

"What if the instruments are in Hangul?"

_"I can fly a Hind with my fucking eyes shut, Roland. Leave it to me."_

"...If you're sure."

_"Thanks."_

Richardson, who had been following the conversation raptly, was startled by Mariko's noisy entrance to the bridge. "We've finished searching the hull," the Japanese woman announced. "There was nobody down there."

"Any supplies?"

The brunette wrinkled her nose. "I wouldn't touch their rations with a stick... We did find four Maxim guns, a full crate of Strela-Twos and enough RPG rounds to knock out a small armored brigade."

"Water-cooled MGs?" Schuhart mused. "That's handy." He peered through the broken window ahead of the wheel. "I see Karan and company are sorting the bodies. Take your section and gather the enemy weapons and ammo – the stuff seems to work well enough for our purposes."

"All right," said Mariko, but her expression was dubious. "I assume you have a contingency plan?"

"I'm working on one."

"What about Azanael and the others?"

"Assuming Anastasiya was able to autorotate safely, they'll have to dig in and hide until we come back for them... KK, tell Phil to try and find out what kind of night vision gear the Norks have."

* * *

_El Palacio Hotel  
Tokyo-2, Japan  
Several hours later_

Shouta didn't look up from his notes when the telephone rang: even if it might be for him, he wasn't allowed to answer it. This time the honor fell to Razael, who openly despised the primitiveness of the device. "Hello?" she said curtly. "...Yanami Shouta? One moment."

The reporter took the handset when she thrust it at him. "Er, hello?"

_"Yakkun? Roland Schuhart. How's the weather in glorious Nippon?"_

"Dark and cloudy." Shouta glanced towards the gap in the lavender curtains, confirming what he already knew. "I thought you were going to Shanghai."

_"I'm in Hangzhou, which is pretty close. It's dark and cloudy here too."_

"Do you know that the North Koreans have made a propaganda broadcast about your company?"

_"Yeah, I saw it."_

"So... is it true?"

_"That the Norks knocked out three of our helicopters and captured an Arume pilot, yes. That they won a clear victory over the imperialist aggressors thanks to the wise teachings of Eternal President Kim Il-sung, no... You got a pencil handy?"_

"Yes."

_"Good. I need you to write down what I'm about to tell you, make an article out of it and get it published as soon as possible. Can you do that?"_

"I'm sorry, I can't do 'spin'."

_"The info is legit, Yakkun."_

"Well..." Being out of the loop on events here in Japan wasn't helping Shouta's moral fiber. "All right, go ahead."

_"Okay... It's true that the Norks gave us a mauling. Why? Because they are cowardly little _maggots_ who hide behind human shields and blind our pilots with illegal lasers, that's why."_

"Lasers?"

_"We're pretty sure they're using the Norinco ZM series. You can probably get a stock photo from one of the ministries over there... Despite their underhanded tactics, one of our strike teams boarded and captured a Chinese trawler which the North Koreans had converted into a gunboat. Twenty-five of the enemy were killed, with no further losses on our side."_

"That's good, I suppose."

_"I wish. We didn't lose anybody because most of the Norks turned their guns on the hostages instead of on us. There were forty-one civilians on the ship, and they executed every single one."_

"Oh..."

_"Tell me about it. We also managed to capture a Russian-built attack helicopter with a three-man crew and destroyed four others in an air-to-air engagement, but there's still a lot of work to be done."_

"What will you do next?"

_"I can't go into specifics right now, but I should have more info for you tonight or tomorrow. I'll try to get you some pictures in a little while."_

"Ah..." Shouta looked over the notes he had scribbled during the exchange so far. "You want me to publish all of this?"

_"Take it all, the good and the bad. If the Norks think we're going to give up now, they think of themselves too highly... I'll talk to you again later."_

Schuhart hung up without any farewells. Shouta contemplated the open notebook for a minute, then pushed back his chair and went to find the telephone directory.


	39. An Unfinished Office in Shanghai, China

_Part 34: An Unfinished Office in Shanghai, China_

_Chinese trawler_ Eccentric Ampersand_  
G-hour plus 17:51:48  
April 30th, 2016_

It was good to have Sauer back.

She wasn't officially cleared to return to duty yet. The Butcher's bullets had only bruised her and not cracked her young bones, but even now she moved with an atypical stiffness, and Richardson didn't miss the sharp little breaths which hissed between Sauer's teeth whenever she aggravated one of her injuries. Of course Uncle Roland knew that she hated to be separated from her sisters, even for one day, but the reasons he put on paper had to be more practical: Sauer was put on the resupply flight into Hangzhou because there were machine guns in need of expert attention.

That was why Sauer sat on the floor of the trawler's kitchen – known in forime seafaring terms as a 'galley' – hunched over the guts of her newest project in the dim red glow of the night running lights. The Pulemyot Maksima, model of 1910, was unlike her usual working weapons: it was too heavy to carry forwards in dynamic combat, but with its heavy two-wheeled mount and upright bullet shield it was suitable for entrenched defense. Its most distinctive feature was conveyed by the nickname Carcano had bestowed in the girls' native language: _Arem'palak_, water-holder.

The North Koreans had placed four of the Maxims aboard the ship, but never used them in the skirmishes with Eto Delo. Now they were being put to work by their new owners, taking advantage of the ready supply of compatible ammunition and the guns' ability to operate continuously for far longer than their air-cooled brethren. Three had turned out all right, but the fourth required more affection than its old masters had shown it... and so Sauer had labored for the last hour with her wrench and pliers and gauges, trying to get it tuned just right because she knew she might not have another chance.

Richardson turned away and went to the row of battery chargers which were fixed to the galley counter with duct tape, checking the status lights on each one. She was worried about Sauer, definitely worried, but there were others as well. She worried about Azanael, who languished in the hands of the Kimists, and about Krag, who would be devastated if that Arume joined the Koreans' slaughtered victims. She also worried about Keiko, who had taken the enemy's tactics as a personal affront and been working like a maniac to repair the captured Mi-35 almost since the minute she'd finished ferrying it back to the temporary base in Hangzhou.

The batteries had a stubby cylindrical shape, the latest electro-chemical technology in a legacy form factor. They were used to power the night sights which were general issue for this mission: bulky Russian relics, like the Maxim guns. Richardson herself had exchanged her daylight sight and grenade launcher for one, along with a sound suppressor of Finnish manufacture. Her comrades had taken this trawler by overwhelming speed and force, but a different stratagem, one of stealth and patience, was needed to surmount the next obstacle.

Taking her share of the power cells, the gosta went to join her partner. She found Harrington curled up in a corner of the bridge, sleeping on a makeshift bedroll. The blood and broken glass had been carefully cleared away, the windows covered with black cloth screens in accordance with the need for absolute light and noise discipline. Webley stood at the wheel, steering as Uncle Roland directed her via radio, while Vickers and Korth monitored the instruments. Richardson and Harrington had already taken a turn watching the dials and displays, and were now allocated to a different posting.

They still had a few minutes before their next shift started, however, and Richardson intended to make the most of that time. She knelt beside her partner, stroking the sleeping girl's cheek with reverent softness. Harrington stirred, reaching out unconsciously until her hands found Richardson and pulled her down, a leg draping over the other's thigh and securing the embrace. The awake one reciprocated, snuggling up and closing her eyes.

_"Helm, reduce speed to five knots and turn twenty degrees to port on my mark."_

_"Copy."_

_"Stand by... Mark."_

Richardson's eyelashes fluttered. _Time to go already?_

Schuhart's next broadcast confirmed it. _"Ladies and gentlemen, we have left the canal and entered the Huangpu River. Please remain seated, as we expect minor turbulence."_

"Mmmmf." Harrington stirred. "...We there?"

"Mm-hm." Richardson leaned in for a kiss and was rewarded with a brief duel of tongues. Harrington had been taking her displays of affection to new heights of late – not that her lover minded in the slightest.

_"Helm, turn fifty degrees to starboard. Mark."_

_"Roger."_

Harrington sat up, rubbing her eyes for a few moments, and then picked up her gear. Accepting the proffered hand, she let Richardson help her onto her feet. "Ready to go?"

"Yeah..."

The pair made their way to the open deck indirectly, leaving the bridge via the inside ladder and a detour through the bottom level of the superstructure. It was very dark outside, even for eyes already adjusted to the lack of light: the heavy clouds persisted, and electrical power to virtually the entire metropolis had been cut after the Korean invasion. Richardson waited for Harrington to close the final door behind herself, then popped the protective filter off the end of the 1PN51, powered it on, and took a luridly green look at the riverbank a few dozen meters off the trawler's port side.

The Huangpu ran through the heart of Shanghai and emptied into the Yangzi on the city's north side, right in the middle of North Korean territory. Upstream of the city center there was a sharp bend where two straight canals, one running east and one south, connected the river to a network of smaller channels – and to Hangzhou Bay. One only needed to look at a map of the area to see the strategic value of the waterways, value which the enemy was unwilling or unable to fully capitalize on.

Satisfied that all was calm and that the sight was operating correctly, Richardson switched it off, reached up to the Thales light-amplifying monocular attached to the front of her helmet, and rotated it to cover her left eye. There was a distinctive _click-clack_ when her other hand moved to her rifle's selector lever and pressed it down, passing over _AV_ and settling on _OD_. "Let's meet with Uncle Roland," the gosta whispered.

Harrington nodded in agreement and the duo began to make their way forwards, their outlines all but invisible in the depths of the blackout. They met Krag and Borchardt pulling lookout duty on the midship deck, exchanging silent gestures of mutual recognition as they passed. Ascending to the foredeck, the girls next encountered Krieghoff curled up beside a motorized capstan, ready to crew the forward anti-aircraft gun if the mission went hot ahead of schedule.

Rubin and Schuhart were sitting up at the prow, one holding an RPG launcher with its own night sight, the other peering intently at the river ahead through a monocular like Richardson's. "Uncle Roland," the smaller sentinel murmured, "Harrington and Richardson are here."

"Hey girls." The man spoke without breaking his vigil. "Everything okay? Any equipment problems?"

The forime in the group were of the opinion that 5.45mm subsonic ammunition was inadequate for their battle plan, and most of the AK-74s had been swapped out for AKMs before the trawler sailed from Hangzhou. It wasn't a difficult switch for the gosta, who ran up the majority of their training hours on both of those platforms, but Richardson nevertheless appreciated the show of concern. "No problems," she said. "Should we stay here?"

"Yeah." The arms dealer waved to the left, then to the right. "Watch the flanks, we're getting to the fun part... Helm, correct course ten degrees to port."

* * *

"Where did Schuhart get the name for this boat, anyway?"

"He chose it in honor of his old nemesis, the Eccentric Ampersand of Khartoum." Karan shrugged. "It's a running joke at the office."

A joke which Mari evidently hadn't heard yet – not surprising, since she rarely went to the administrative part of the organization's Hong Kong headquarters without a good reason. The other team leaders clearly knew it, though. There were four of them all told, each in command of a ten-man section: Phil Darwin for A Team, Karan for B Team, Vsevolod Lebedev – 'Seva' or 'Freebooter' to his friends – for V Team, and Mari herself for G Team. Schuhart and the sixteen gosta made up D Team.

_"All hands, all hands, stand by for possible contact."_

Mari perked up at the warning. Any action was welcome after being stuck in the lower decks for so long, surrounded by the odor of the trawler's former cargoes.

* * *

"We've got three flatbed motor barges rafted in the middle of the river," Schuhart muttered, peering through one side of a large pair of binoculars. "Looks like the KPA are using them to make a choke point. I see light guns on deck and sentries with RPGs and MANPADS. No hostages in the open... Helm, cut the engines and stand by on the stern anchor. Assault teams, silent muster for deployment by rubber ducky." He lowered the binoculars. "Richardson, go get the SVD."

* * *

_Sino-Arumic Liaison Headquarters  
Guangzhou, China  
G-hour plus 25:11:20_

"Renaril, wake up."

"Hnnnnn..?" Renaril blinked, lifting her head reluctantly. "Oh, Li..." The Arume sat up, making room for her partner to sit down on the break room's khaki couch. "What's happening?"

"We have news from Shanghai." Kang handed her a color printout. "Schuhart is still using Yanami Shouta to relay information."

The article's headline was vivid enough: _SHANGHAI COMMANDO RAID SEIZES ILLEGAL MILITARY LASER_, it read. There was a photograph nestled beside the column of smaller text under the header, showing a rectangular gray object mounted on a tripod, with a thick cable plugged into a box on the ground below it. _The Norinco ZM-87-2 is a neodymium pulse laser,_ ran the caption under the image. _Aimed using a telescopic sight, it can destroy camera sensors and blind humans at distances up to ten kilometers. Military use of permanently blinding lasers was banned by international law in 1995._

The rest of the article was frustratingly vague. It said that an Eto Delo strike team had destroyed a North Korean outpost, but didn't say where. It said that they had killed a large number of the enemy and rescued Chinese hostages while suffering only minor casualties of their own, but gave no specific numbers. It said the fight would go on, but not for how long or towards what objective. "Is this all?" the Arume asked after she reached the bottom.

"Yes." The colonel held out a metal mess can full of something that was warm and sour-smelling. "Take this."

Renaril opened the lid. "Noodles?"

"Pork noodles with vinegar. I... thought you might want to eat something that didn't come out of a tube."

The alien picked up the chopsticks, paused just long enough to make sure the food wasn't too hot to put in her mouth, and slurped up some of the long strands. The flavor was much stronger than any service ration, and even a large part of Arume civilian cuisine would seem bland in comparison. "You made this?"

Kang nodded, looking faintly embarrassed. "I'm sorry it's not anything exceptional."

"It's fine." Renaril took another mouthful to prove it. "...Is this what you would eat at home?"

"This?" The Chinese woman shook her head. "A Shanxi chef would probably rate this worse than cheap Beijing tourist food." She offered a wry smile. "I never learned to do it correctly."

"I don't mind." This should have been a moment to cherish, especially after the ongoing crisis had put the brakes on the couple's intimate relations, but the mention of Kang's politically hostile home province stirred up thoughts Renaril had been trying to ward off. "Li... If we..."

"Yes..?"

Renaril swallowed with an empty mouth. "If we ever become enemies... do you think you could you still love me?"

"What?" Kang twisted so that she was facing her companion. "Why are you thinking about something like that?"

"I don't know why," the smaller female admitted. "I don't know, but I'm afraid..."

"Don't be." Kang laid a hand on her shoulder. "I can't say it's impossible," the soldier conceded, "that some day we might be separated." She gave a gentle squeeze. "But I don't think it's a realistic problem right now. Eat up and we'll..."

Renaril lifted her head sharply as Kang trailed off, unable to suppress the oncoming yawn reflex. "Li, have you slept at all since yesterday?"

"About twenty minutes. I'll rest later."

Even when they'd had this conversation before, that kind of casual disclosure was still disturbing. Renaril closed the lid on the noodles, set the can on the floor and stood up, placing her hands on her hips. "Not later," the Arume declared, _"now."_

"I'm all right, Renaril. I can keep going – "

The forime started to get up, but the alien pushed her back down. "You can't keep doing this," the latter said firmly. "It's bad for you and it's bad for the baby."

"But – "

Renaril was unswayed, her concern for the health of the mother to be overriding her usual reluctance to challenge the colonel directly. "Sleep. _Now."_

Kang yawned again, and this action seemed to convince her that she might in fact be overtaxing herself. "...Maybe for a couple of hours," she sighed, kicking her shoes off one by one. "But wake me if anything happens, anything at all. Understand?"

"Of course." Renaril looked on in open adoration as Kang swung her legs onto the couch and stretched out. "Tonight, um... Tonight, let's use my room, okay?"

"Mm..."

Satisfied, Renaril pushed her feet into her own shoes, collected the noodles and the printout, and departed for the control room. She felt a little better about her prospects for the day ahead, despite the flicker of guilt which lingered in the wake of her white lie – barring an actual emergency, she intended to let Kang sleep for however long it took to fulfill her body's needs.

In the control room Negadael and Eripol were already on duty, and one of the night shift operators – Pronamel, or something like that – was still working as well. Renaril announced her presence softly: "Good morning, everyone."

"Good morning, Group Commander," came the collective reply.

Renaril sat down at the table behind her subordinates and their consoles. "The colonel is taking a nap," she said, "so you can give me any work she left unfinished."

"There isn't any," Negadael replied. "She made a, um... a clean sweep, but you do have a meeting with Weisheng Ying scheduled for ten hundred hours."

"I remember." The noddles were still warm and Renaril was still hungry, but she needed to be considerate. "Have you eaten yet?"

"The colonel brought us some rations," said Pronamel, rolling back her chair. "Group Commander, I'm done here."

"Thanks for the hard work." It was a formulaic utterance, but Renaril put her sincerity into it. "There's nothing else to report?" she went on, addressing the others as Pronamel walked out.

"No, ma'am," Eripol answered. "You could go back to sleep for a while if you like."

A tempting proposition, but not one Renaril could take up. _Li stayed awake when I was resting,_ she told herself sternly. _She did so much work and cooked for me on top of that – now it's my turn._ "Thanks," the senior Arume said aloud, "but I'd better stay here."

Reaching across the table, she snagged the telephone and pulled it closer to herself.

* * *

"Whoops." Schuhart balanced his AKMS in the crook of his arm and brought out his satellite phone. "Koreaaaaans, we're up to our knees in Koreaaaaans... Hang on a second, I need to turn up the volume... Okay, go ahead."

_"Um, hello."_ Hearing Renaril's voice come out of the handset diverted Richardson's attention from her breakfast. _"I saw the news piece about the laser."_

"Nasty thing, isn't it?" The arms dealer leaned back against a bare concrete wall, watching the eight off-watch gosta devour their field rations. "I'll ask Nereus to show it to you once it arrives in Hong Kong... Anyway, what's up?"

_"I was wondering if there was any more information about Azanael."_

"Ah." When Richardson looked up from spreading meat paste onto a large cracker, she saw a look of subtle worry on the man's face. "We haven't heard anything since the initial message, sorry."

_"Do you think they'll kill her?"_

"Not likely," Schuhart opined. "Not as long as they think she might be useful for leverage."

_"I hope you're right,"_ Renaril told him. _"What about the other pilots?"_

"The Norks are claiming they were shot while resisting capture."

_"Oh... Uh, so what are you doing now?"_

"Me? I'm camping out with the girls."

_"...Camping?"_

Based on her knowledge of the forime pastime, Richardson could agree with that comparison. "Pretty much," said Schuhart, apparently of like mind, "except that we've got an unfinished building instead of tents, we're eating Russian army rations instead of marshmallows and hot dogs, and we spent our morning machine-gunning the neighbors instead of singing songs around a campfire."

_"Could you, um... be more specific, please?"_

"Don't you mean, could I be more serious?" The blond man limped over to the closest opening in the outer wall, where a gallery window was meant to be installed later in the building's fabrication, and warily looked upon the overcast vista outside. "We've cut the Huangpu at two points, denying the KPA access to the upstream canals. The forward firebase is in a construction site on the east bank in Pudong, overlooking a bend in the river south of the Bund. It's a big project – you can probably find it on an up-to-date map."

_"I'm looking at it now... But doesn't this exceed the boundaries of your contract to protect the Nerv base?"_

"As the saying goes, sometimes the best defense is a good offense."

_"Is it working?"_

"A couple of Nork platoons tried to push us back about three hours ago. Obviously we're still here and they aren't. According to the hostages we freed this morning..."

The war trophies lying on the girls' bedrolls were silent tributes to the success of the last battle, the Tokarev rifle at Richardson's side not least among them. While the telephoning man walked away down the length of the drafty room, she turned her face towards Harrington and the can of water boiling atop the disposable stove in front of the other gosta. The stove was fueled by a burning tablet of hexamine, a compact and convenient source of energy – and, said Schuhart, a chemical precursor to the high explosive RDX.

Harrington made a purring noise when her girlfriend leaned in and pressed warm lips against her cheek. "It's not ready yet."

"I know."

"...By the way, where's the colonel?" Now Schuhart was coming back along the far side of the room. "That's good, she needs a break. Are you going to do anything special tomorrow?" Richardson couldn't hear Renaril's response, but the man looked satisfied. "Okay... Tell her I'm sorry we can't be there for it, all right?"

"That's right," Carcano whispered behind Richardson's back. "It's Colonel Kang's birthday tomorrow."

"She's so busy," said Rubin, stirring juice concentrate powder into her cup. "I wonder if she even remembers it."

"...And we're still waiting to see what Landline Transnational does. How's that package coming along? Uh-huh... Now? Seriously?" Schuhart grimaced. "Why me?" His change in tone reclaimed the attention of the gosta. "Yeah, great. They want a trial on the front line, I get it... No promises. I'll take a look at it when it gets here... I know it's not your fault, so don't worry about it. You just take care of the colonel, all right? ...Good. I'll talk to you later... 'Bye."

Sauer spoke for all the girls: "What's happened?"

"It's nothing serious." Schuhart returned the satphone to its carry position and sat down on one of the oblong supply crates which rested in the middle of the room. "We're finally getting that electronic translator I asked for, but in return the sky eyes want one of their own on the ground as an observer. They're sending Elaqebil, so that's not so bad."

"Won't the warlords object to more Arume coming?"

"As long as said Arume don't actually cross their territory, there's not much the cliques can do about it... More importantly, the sky eyes also want me to field test some new weapon Boomslang Ordnance has been working on."

"New weapon?"

"Don't get excited, Korth. It's not going to win the war for us." The leader folded his arms. "But since Renaril has put in a word on their behalf, I'll have to give it a go."

"Oh."

"Yeah... Enjoy the food, kids. Your shift starts in eighteen minutes."

* * *

_Blue Sea Dormitory, Kaiou Academy  
Japan, Second Universal Layer  
1999_

Tsubael hadn't meant to peep.

Officers of the Arume navy did not conduct themselves so carelessly, she assured herself as her ghostly projection drifted down the dark corridors of the schoolgirls' residence. No, she was merely a dutiful subordinate who came to make sure her overworked commander was resting adequately. She would come and stick her head in the door just long enough to verify the situation, and then she would leave.

"Am I doing it right?"

_..!_

Commander Ekaril was on the right-hand bed... Mari's bed. She lay on her back, her knees drawn up and her thighs spread, the expanse of pale skin conveying every tremor in her sleek, toned muscles. "Yes," she answered, in a voice that was half moan and half whisper.

Mari knelt between the alien's ankles, naked as well. Her hands were buried in Ekaril's nether parts. "Now what?"

"Press gently with your finger tip and rub in a circle... Aah – !"

Tsubael hadn't meant to peep, but she couldn't look away. _She's... The commander is..!_

Moving deeper into the room, towards Ekaril's vacant bed, the navigator was able to see the forime's expression of deep concentration. Mari followed the last directive for several seconds, her eyes fixed on the supine female's face, before inspiration moved her in a new direction. She raised one arm, reaching out above Ekaril's upper body, and extended a finger which glistened in the dim light. Tsubael held her breath in anticipation as that finger descended, curled back towards its root, and then flicked across the stiff pink nub at the peak of the commander's breast. Ekaril gasped, her flawless cornflower eyes snapping open. The watcher gasped too, and hastily ducked into the floor before either of the budding lovers could notice her. Cheeks flushed with embarrassment, the mortified wraith fled from the dormitory.

Tsubael hadn't meant to peep, but she'd done it anyway. _Stupid..! Careless..!_

Back in her seat on the cruiser's bridge, she passed the next half-hour alternating between berating herself and praying that the commander wouldn't reprimand her for the indiscretion. As time passed, however, her guilt gave way to rationalization: could any sane woman endure this isolated life for as long as she had and _not_ feel lonely?

_Blue_ departed from the first layer with a crew of 206, all ranks. A night of terror off the rocky shores of Kamiokijima reduced it to two. Integral automation allowed Tsubael to operate the damaged vessel virtually single-handed for the next five years, but the ship's dumb AI made a poor conversation partner and was absolutely useless when it came to her physical needs. Meanwhile the commander became aloof, immersing herself more and more in her double life among the forime. Tsubael contented herself with watching the people of these lands from a distance, absorbing their ways piecemeal. She learned to speak a couple of their languages, tap into their 'telafoen' networks and watch their 'telavizhon' transmissions, but only near the end of the mission did she mentally elevate them above the level of barbarians needing to be subjugated.

She hated to admit it, but Tsubael was starting to miss having Azanael around to trade barbs with, even after the other's betrayal of Ekaril's trust and sabotage of their ship. The navigator had done a lot of thinking after her initial rage subsided, and found herself wondering if the pilot had simply cracked under the strain. Everyone knew Shivariel was a harsh taskmaster, and the grief of losing Onomil – compounded by only receiving confirmation of her death years after the fact – couldn't have improved the flight chief's mental state... Nor did having to watch Ekaril, whom she blamed for the loss of her partner, laughing and smiling as she mingled with the natives, as if the decimation of the crew meant nothing to their commander.

Tsubael hadn't meant to peep, but she couldn't stop the spectacle from flashing through her mind after the fact. _Think about something else! Think about something else! Think about – !_

It hurt, even though it was the outcome she already expected. Ekaril loved Mari, not her... Mari, who resembled her so strongly in figure and attitude. It hurt, even though she knew the choice was made with no malice towards herself... It hurt, and it left her looking for second-best options. She'd always known that she would be expected to do her duty with a forime woman even if Ekaril reciprocated her feelings, but she'd put off looking for alternate candidates. For better or worse, the only forime she knew well enough to evaluate at this hour were Mari's classmates.

The rotund Funatsumaru Hiroko was right out, though Tsubael could still see her as a friend. Ekaril's three fangirls were fairly good looking, but the Arume found their shrill, fawning demeanor utterly repellent. Kawashima Akane was a more promising candidate, at least on a purely strategic level, but the alien feared that their personalities would clash in the same way hers already did with Azanael... What about Kouzuki Michiko, then? She was a comfortingly familiar sight, jogging around the campus in her tracksuit pants and white shirt, and Tsubael had watched closely as the budding playwright crafted her story, pouring her feelings into a work which –

"Grrrrr..!"

_Arume high speed transport_  
_East China Sea_  
_G-hour plus 26:01:13_

Tsubael opened an eye and turned it towards her fellow passenger. "Stuck in your game again?" she asked irritably.

"Yeah," Elaqebil muttered, oblivious to Tsubael's malcontent. "I have to pick up this flask to proceed, but it won't let me."

The wing-in-ground vehicle was fast, fast enough that the ride from Nagasaki to Shanghai would take barely an hour, but whoever programmed the skimmer's automatic stabilizer routines had done a sloppy job: the constant wobbling was starting to upset Tsubael's stomach, and she was seriously contemplating the great schadenfreude potential of parking her morning meal in Elaqebil's lap if she absolutely couldn't keep it down. "Give it here," she sighed, yanking the PDA out of the other Arume's hand.

Elaqebil's craze of the day was an adventure game with a text interface. The format was not unfamiliar to Tsubael, who had dissected a couple of them while learning to write software for forime computers, but she didn't need the source code to see that the problem wasn't with the program itself: Elaqebil had tried to _get ye flask_ sixteen times, but the command interpreter firmly insisted that _you can't get ye flask_. Tsubael rolled her eyes, typed _get flask_, and punched the emulated Enter key at the bottom of the screen.

"Oh," said Elaqebil sheepishly. "I didn't think of that."

"Mmf." Elaqebil was not one of Tsubael's friends. She was Azanael's friend, yes, but to Tsubael she was merely the eccentric bureaucrat who spent all her free time watching movies, playing games and pestering Azanael to have sex with Akane. That wasn't to say she didn't have any good points or didn't mean well, but right now the smaller of the two aliens found her head-in-the-clouds mindset especially grating. "...Elaqebil."

"Hm..?"

"Instead of playing that, could you tell me just _what_ I'm supposed to do in Hangzhou or wherever?"

"Shanghai," said Elaqebil distractedly. "We're going to Shanghai."

"I thought I was supposed to be showing somebody how to use the auto-translator."

"You are, but they're in Shanghai now, not Hangzhou."

This conversation was becoming physically painful. "And who _are_ they?"

"Huh?" Elaqebil finally looked up from her game. "Didn't anybody tell you after you were summoned?"

Tsubael looked away, biting her tongue before she could lash out. "All I know," she said after breathing deeply, "is that somebody wants the auto-translator."

"That's right," said Elaqebil. "The people who are trying to get Azanael back."

* * *

_Construction site, Pudong District_  
_Shanghai, China_  
_G-hour plus 26:46:20_

"Enemy in sight!" Richardson flipped her new SVT-40's safety lever out of its trigger's path. "Action stations!"

She knelt at the northeast edge of the skeletal building's roof, fortified with sacks of dirt and cement taken from the abandoned construction works below, and sighted in. Sauer took command of the Maxim to her right, while Harrington assumed her customary position at Richardson's left elbow. Schuhart hobbled up from the level below just a few seconds later. "What have we got?"

"One boat coming up the river," Harrington reported, looking through her scope. "It's moving slowly. They are flying a DPRK flag... and a white flag."

"A white flag?" Schuhart unfolded his Kalashnikov's double-strut stock and scooted up to the ramparts. _"Now_ the little bastards want to talk?"

The boat – to Richardson it looked like some sort of shallow-draft river tug, not unlike the ones she had seen during visits to Guangzhou – slowed to a crawl. She could see men in dark green uniforms walking about on the forward deck, all armed. Among them was one who wore a grotesquely large cap like in the old photos of KPA guards along the demilitarized zone, captured on film as they stared at their hated enemy through their massive binoculars.

This one carried something other than binoculars in his hand: Richardson first thought it was a weapon and her trigger finger tensed, but once the man raised it in front of his face she realized it was actually a megaphone. _"Attention, American dogs."_ His accent was so thick that the gosta didn't completely understand him until he repeated his words. _"Attention, American dogs!"_

Uncle Roland was not impressed. "Webley, pass me the yeller."

"Coming."

Another megaphone was brought forward. Schuhart switched it on and took aim at the tug.

* * *

_"YOU WANNA TALK TO DOGS, CALL A KENNEL! YOU WANNA TALK TO AMERICANS, CALL THE STATE DEPARTMENT! YOU WANNA TALK TO US, YOU SAY 'PLEASE' AND 'THANK YOU' LIKE A FUNCTIONING HUMAN BEING!"_

Down on the gun barge moored in the river, Mari cringed. Boss or not, Schuhart was pushing the wrong buttons – especially when Azanael's life was still at stake. "Don't do that," she hissed. "Don't make them angry..."

"Don't worry." G Team's second in command, a wily man by the name of Pastukhov, came over and stood at her side. "They are always angry. You know about Khasan incident? And Panmunjom ax murder?" The Russian turned his stubble-dark face away and spat into the water.

"I know..." Mari looked towards the hulk's stern. The trawler would return in minutes, carrying food, ammunition and an ambiguous special cargo, and while the North Koreans on the other boat wouldn't be able to see it from beyond the bend in the river, they might get aggressive if they figured out how Eto Delo was keeping the makeshift fortress supplied.

* * *

The triple stenches of fish, sweat and diesel weren't enough to offset Tsubael's relief at leaving the skimmer. The fishing boat's gentle pitching was far easier on her stomach, and for that alone she could put up with being surrounded by men with large guns and heavy accents for a little while. Elaqebil was curled up in the back of the bridge, still engrossed in her game and leaving the fellow traveler to her own devices.

Tsubael _was_ feeling a bit nervous, however, even with the nausea behind her. They'd sailed up the canal and were now progressing north with the current, and the only life she'd seen was at the friendly checkpoint where the artificial channel merged into the river – two barges, heavily armed. From where she stood, the rest of Shanghai was a ghost city... Its millions of people fled, gone into hiding or seized by the invaders. The sight reminded her of the first wave of kaijin attacks against her adopted home, before the inhabitants learned to combat her race's weaponized microbe colonies with flamethrowers and detergent.

* * *

"Group Commander, there's a call for you. It's Schuhart."

"Thanks, Eripol. I'll take it here." _Click._ "Hello..?"

_"Hi. Is the colonel still asleep?"_

"Yes, why?"

_"We have whipped the grass and startled the snake... I just got back from a frank exchange of opinions with Major Wang of the Korean People's Army. He came out under a flag of truce to inform us that the Norks would show 'generous mercy' if we laid down our arms and withdrew from Shanghai."_

"And you said..?"

_"I made him a counter-offer: they quit the town, we buy their weapons. He wasn't interested."_

Renaril looked at her map, then reached for a printout which was still warm to the touch. "Is that all?"

_"We worked out a compromise... They'll return Azanael in exchange for the prisoners taken this morning and the crew of the KPA gunship we picked up yesterday."_

A flash of good news out of the gray – better than Renaril dared hope for. "How soon?"

_"About two and a half hours from now, in front of the Customs House on the Bund."_

"That, um... It's awfully fast, isn't it?" According to the cartograph, the proposed meeting point was an exposed street and footpath which bordered the river itself. "Are you sure this isn't a trap?"

_"We're prepared for that."_

"Please be careful," the alien insisted, leaning forward in her chair. "I, uh, got some information... I don't know if it's reliable, but it might be useful to you."

_"I'm listening."_

"All right..." Renaril tried to cradle the handset between her jaw and shoulder, couldn't quite manage it and switched the phone to speaker mode instead. "This came from the Vietnamese government," she continued. "A suspected North Korean military commander was spotted at an airport in Ha Noi ten days ago, boarding a flight to Shanghai... KPA Colonel-Commandant Ma Ri-soo, age thirty-six. I haven't been able to find out a lot about her."

_"The PLA should have had an intelligence file."_

Renaril nodded reflexively, as if Schuhart were sitting at the same table. "I've got it here, but it doesn't tell us very much other than her awards... Hero of the Republic, Order of the National Flag First Class – "

_"Save the bling list for later, if you don't mind. What did the Chinese analysts make of her?"_

"Um... They think she started in the Young Red Guards and graduated straight into the army. There's not much about her service record, except that she led the North Korean response to an Air Koryo hijacking nine years ago. After the DPRK collapsed, she fled the country and allegedly worked as an adviser to the regime in Burma."

_"Got plenty of experience there, I'm sure. Now she's in Shanghai?"_

"The Vietnamese think so." Renaril leafed through the rest of the document. "There's a photo here, from around the time of the hijacking... She looks very pretty, not like someone who would do these cruel things."

_"Watch out for the pretty ones,"_ Schuhart chided. _"Listen, I've got some stuff I need to do before the exchange. If there's nothing urgent, let's talk again after I get back."_

Renaril caught herself nodding again. "All right."

* * *

"You're not going out there."

"I _am_ going out there." Schuhart pulled the magazine out of his weapon, laid it on the crate beside himself, and dumped the others from his ammo pack. "Sauer, you and Richardson have command of the fort while I'm gone."

The gosta looked at him with eyes wide in surprise. "We... we aren't coming with you?"

"Not this time."

Mari heard a faint _skrrritch_ as the man drew a length of packing tape off the roll in his hand. "Why do _you_ have to go?" she demanded, watching him wind the tape around a pair of the ribbed steel magazines. "You're the – "

"I'm the boss?" Schuhart held up the freshly taped mags and inverted them with a flick of his wrist. "The boss has responsibilities." _Gachik!_ "Responsibilities like ensuring the safe return of my employees."

"Who else is going?"

"V Team, I guess." The North Korean equipment which had not been yet allocated to those in need or claimed by those in want lay piled in a corner of the unfurnished cavity: Schuhart went over there and began gathering additional ammunition. "Friendly airlift flyyyin' high, commie mortar laaands nearby..."

"Take G Team," the sniper suggested. "They're better rested."

"Mm, good point... Can't let Landline steal the fun, rollin' with mah Russkie gun... Shaaang-haaa-aaa-aaa-aaa-aaaiii, aaa-aaa-aaa-aaa-aaaiii, however did it cooome to this?"

_How indeed,_ thought Mari. Hearing a noise, she turned towards the cement rudiment's stairwell, where the builders had fixed a a block and tackle for lifting materials up the through center of the squared spiral. Mari approached the opening, caution guiding one hand to her sidearm even when visitors were expected, and waited to meet the arrivals.

Elaqebil had gotten a haircut since the last time the Japanese woman saw her face – on television two days ago – but the hair which remained was still green. She was dressed as if to go sightseeing, with a baseball cap and large backpack. Behind her was a slim, white-haired Arume in similar clothing, who looked much less at ease in this setting. "Hello," the former panted.

Schuhart, too, was watching. "Hello, Superintendent," he replied. "Welcome to Oscarsborg-on-Huangpu."

"Nice view from up here," Elaqebil remarked. "This is Tsubael, a system programmer for the electronic translator..."

Mari twitched.

"...Tsubael, this is Roland Schuhart."

The second guest removed her own cap, folded it over and stuffed it into one of her shorts pockets. "Do you have any news about Azanael?"

It _was_ the one and only Tsubael, just as Mari remembered the argumentative alien from her fractured adolescence. She quickly turned away, hoping the former shepherd of _Blue_ wouldn't recognize her in turn.

Schuhart meanwhile cocked his head at Tsubael's impatience. "What's it to you?" he asked evenly.

"What are you talking about? She's my friend!"

"That's funny." The arms dealer went back to taping mags. "When I hired her, the people in your personnel bureau went out of their way to impress upon me that she was an outcast, a pariah... But now that she's in trouble, the office is getting calls from _friends_ everywhere."

"It's the truth," Elaqebil interjected. "Tsubael and Azanael have been close for many years. They're almost like family."

"Exactly," Tsubael added indignantly. "Isn't that why _I_ was picked to come out here?"

"Don't ask me," said Schuhart with a shrug. "Your gadget, it can interpret the northern dialects of Korean?"

"It should, but it hasn't been extensively tested."

"What about Chinese? We need at least the local flavors of Wu."

"It can do that, too."

"Good." The man clapped his hands. "Benelli, Johnson, get the lady set up and learn how that stuff works... Superintendent, I'm going to have to look at the package from Boomslang later."

"Oh? Are you going somewhere?"

"That's right." Schuhart threw a glance Tsubael's way as he slid the jungle-taped magazines back into their pouches. "The latest news about our missing flight chief is that the Norks say they'll trade her for some of their own. I'm heading down to the river to assemble a crew right now."

Tsubael halted with both hands buried in her backpack. "Right now? You mean – "

"Quick deliveries are good for repeat business," the other quipped mirthlessly, keying his personal radio. "Pastukhov, Schuhart here. I'm pulling G Team off the line for prisoner recovery. Assemble the unit for briefing, I'll be with you shortly – out."

That snapped Mari out of the disarray brought on by Tsubael's appearance. She hustled over to the weapon pile, scooped up a Sudayev submachine gun and its ammunition pouch, and made tracks for the stairwell.

Schuhart looked back at her from halfway down the first flight of steps. "Where are _you_ going?"

"I also have responsibilities." Mari flexed the pouch's carry strap, dark and stiff with splotches of dried blood, then passed it over her shoulder and nailed her employer with a look of icy resolve. "I'm going with you."


	40. Interlude II: Vinterkriget

(Before we begin, some quick notes... Firstly, thanks to Kakashi-tan in Norway for his name suggestions_._ Secondly, readers might want to revisit _Arctic Artemis_ and _Despair, Rage, Envy_ for context before reading this installment. Thirdly, since people keep asking me about this, I'm going to go ahead and confirm that Hagino/Ekaril _will_ be appearing in the story in more than just memories and flashbacks, though for obvious reasons I can't yet reveal how or when that will happen.)

_Interlude II: Vinterkriget_

_Kaliningrad, Russia_  
_Second Universal Layer_  
_Two years ago_

"You found me at a good time," Pavel Filatov remarked, pushing open the door without breaking his purposeful stride. "I was about to begin packing."

Frigid air, laden with hostility, greeted Phil Darwin as he exited the warehouse-cum-headquarters. "They're shippin' you out, too?"

Filatov cared nothing for the cold wind and cloudy sky over his balding head. "Not gladly, I assure you. I leave so much work unfinished." A repurposed aircraft tractor overtook the two men, towing a trailer with a pair of anti-aircraft guns on it. The doctor let the machine pass before he spoke again. "Who is today's patient?"

"A boomin' Betty." Phil pulled down the side flaps of his ushanka, covering his ears. "We picked 'er up on Leninskiy Prospekt, near the Portovaya intersection."

"Not one of ours?"

"No, from the last drop."

"Three days' exposure," Filatov noted clinically. "So – dehydration, hypothermia, possible frostbite?"

"Worse." The Australian's hand clenched, tight enough to wrinkle the strips of tape coiled around his carbine's cracked handguard. "Enemy scouts got to 'er first, hurt her bad."

"Then I pray our opponents are at least still taking care to prevent sexual infections."

"It's not loike 'at," Phil corrected, though he knew all too well why the Russian would assume so. "It's 'er face, not... not down _there._ They cut her up."

"I see... What care has the victim received?"

"Uh, we gave 'er some water an' put 'er in Marjatta's sleepin' bag."

"Insulation alone is not adequate in cases of severe heat loss, Filip Alanovich."

"Yeah, we know." A group of soldiers came jogging down the lane in a loose cluster, Free Europe regulars running for the boat which would take them to Finland. _Enjoy the ride, you fade-away A-Jays,_ Phil thought contemptuously. "Marjatta said she 'ad an idea about that."

Filatov said no more, but the span of his paces lengthened. Likewise for Phil, whose trigger finger was starting to recover the nervous twitch he'd been fighting to suppress ever since Aalborg. He controlled the tic with a grimace, mashing the pad of the errant digit against the side of the Diemaco's scuffed and scratched alloy receiver. The duo proceeded eastwards, neither following the other: both knew where their destination lay, just inside the first defensive line.

Two of Phil's fellow fo-vo's were standing watch at the door to the guardhouse when he and Filatov arrived: Tommy van der Merwe, Pretorian exchange student baptized by fire when the first ships appeared over London, and Konrad 'no relation' Kant, escaped conscript from the collaborator armies. The trenches, sandbags and machine gun emplacements began twenty meters past the house, and beyond those, across the killing fields strewn with rusting barbed wire and improvised obstacles, was the hunting ground, a concrete jungle marked on the tacticians' maps as _mertvyy gorod_ – the dead city.

"She's awake," said Tommy, not waiting for Phil to inquire. "Marjatta is warming her up."

"Okay... Errol come back yet?"

"No, not yet."

Phil didn't like that. He and his brother had gone to the command block together, him to fetch the doctor and Errol to report the unit's findings. Since the other Darwin hadn't already returned, nor caught up with them on the way, Phil feared a holdup of the worst sort – _bureaucratic._

Filatov marched straight to the guardhouse door. "Come," said he. "Let us begin."

Phil followed, slinging his weapon, while Tommy and Konrad stood fast. The rest of the Darwins' section were inside, huddled in the anemic glow of the stove. _Warm up while you can, lads. Tomorrow it might be a cold grave for all of us._

Filatov went around them and knelt beside the watchmen's bunks on the far wall. "Hello, little one."

Phil blinked. His eyes went from the bunk to the leotard and full set of winter battle dress draped over the field pack and PLCE webbing heaped in the corner, then back to the bunk. Marjatta Tikkanen, the team's stony-hearted huntress, lay entwined with the rescued gosta inside her rumpled sleeping bag, the unmarred side of the naked girl's face nestled under her chin. The other half of that angelic visage was a ghastly mess of sticky gray blood, clumps of it adhering to her swirling, snowy hair.

"She's timid," Marjatta warned, stroking the creature's trembling head. "Don't startle her."

Filatov knew that, of course, but it was a warning worth repetition. Taming a gosta was like defusing a bomb – a frightened, emotional bomb with a fragile trigger. To win their trust, one couldn't be either too eager or too apathetic... and _never_ forceful. _Like Shipley,_ Phil reminisced. _Whom we couldn't find more than bits of._

Lying in the embrace of a warm female body seemed to have a calming effect on the girl, who offered no complaint when the man of medicine methodically inspected her lacerations. "Well, Doc?" the marksman prompted.

"I have no miracles in my little aptechka," Filatov answered gravely. "I can fix her up, but there will remain scars."

One of the fo-vo's on the floor spoke out: "Shouldn't we move her to the medical section?"

"It is in chaos," the Russian sighed, taking out his personal aid kit, "and I do not think the little one wants to move... I can do the preliminary work here, at least."

"Mmf." Phil caught the eyes of the others. "Put the kettle on and we'll – "

He was cut short by the door being opened with great force. _"Darwin!"_

The gosta whimpered and the Australian's finger twitched anew. The intruder was Captain Nowak, a scowling, squinting apparatchik whose presence on the threshold was as unwelcome as an enemy sortie. Phil hustled back outside before he could launch into a real rant, all but shoving Nowak ahead of himself. "You got a death wish, mate?" the Aussie demanded, latching the door behind himself. "Know 'oo we've got in there?"

Nowak looked as if he wanted to push his way back inside, even with Phil physically blocking the door. "This is not permitted," he intoned stiffly. "Why did you bring her back?"

Phil folded his arms. "Well you see, we 'ave this thing in Australia called _human decency_..."

Nowak bared his teeth, but it was an impotent threat. Unlike Phil, he'd never served pre-invasion. His nominal rank was bestowed as a reward for producing results (and skillful arse kissing) in the struggle against the Arume, a formality which gave him little meaningful power over the brothers Darwin so long as they too produced results. "We do not have resources to waste on your... _frivolities,"_ he huffed. "You should have ended her pain and continued your mission."

"Thought you Catholics didn't go in fer that," said Phil pointedly.

Nowak avoided the accusing glare. "These are extraordinary circumstances... She would not be saved in any case."

"That's noice." Normally Phil wouldn't be quite so flippant, but he was mad as hell and he knew Tommy and Konrad would back him up. "You come all the way out 'ere just to break the news?"

The captain quivered, like a pot about to boil over. "Sometimes, Darwin, I wonder why you are here." His eyes darted to the portal through which he could not pass. "The registry is closed, I will make no exceptions."

"Oh, you _are_ a stingy bastard, aren't you? Go on, then." Phil jerked his head in the direction of headquarters. "Fuck off back to yer cozy desk and 'ave a good kip, you pogo!"

Whatever his other flaws, Nowak at least recognized when he'd lost. "This will be subtracted from your points," he snapped, turning away. "I expect a complete account of her expenses."

_I'll show YOU expenses._ Phil's eyes bored into the officer's back as he stomped off. _Bloody oxygen thief!_

The Foreign Volunteers consisted mostly of two sorts of people: those who crossed half the world to join it, and those who were shunted into it because they came from the same parts of Europe as those with whom they were exchanging bullets. Nowak fell into the latter category because Poland, whose people once prided themselves on not collaborating with the legions of evil incarnate, was the third largest supplier of manpower to the puppet army now attacking Kaliningrad.

There were thousands of others in the same predicament, who nevertheless carried themselves with determination and dignity. Others like Konrad, standing right here, or like Henri de Gautet, whose tenacious defense of the anti-air battery at Lesnaya gavan' bought the evacuating defenders precious time... That an arsewipe like Nowak got promoted over such stalwarts was a travesty, no two ways about it.

Phil was diverted from his brooding by the arrival of his twin, a supply sack under one arm and five and a half kilograms of Fabrique Nationale steel and plastic under the other. "How's Nikka?" asked the second Darwin.

"Nikka?"

"They wanted a name fer the papers," said Errol. "Didn't know 'er number, so now she's Nikka Dilligaf."

"The doc's lookin' at her," Phil informed him. "Why Nikka?"

"I wos thirsty." The culprit displayed absolutely no shame for his motive. "Dilligaf's okay?"

"Yeah, that's foine."

"Fair 'nuff." Errol glanced behind himself. "Wot did Nowak want?"

"Oh, he came 'round to tell us the good lord's mercy doesn't reach as far's those 'oo fall from heaven... Also that we're payin' Nikka's costs ourselves."

"Ain't so bad." Errol cocked his head. "We gonna stand 'ere all noight?"

"Sorry." Phil opened the door for his brother and entered after him, motioning for Tommy and Konrad to come in from the cold as well. "How goes, Doc?"

Filatov didn't look up. "The outburst distressed her greatly. Don't let it happen again."

"If he comes back," promised Phil, "I'll break 'is teeth." He pulled off his gloves and held his hands over the stove as Errol unloaded the sack. "Whooooo..."

_Why are you here?_

He must have heard that question hundreds of times, and not because of his nationality. Gay men could live the good life under the alien regime, with those who pledged loyalty to the Arume enjoying privileges far beyond the meager allotments of their heterosexual peers... Court eunuchs, that was how Phil scornfully thought of them. It was an opportunity he wanted no part of, not after witnessing the invaders' crimes against his own kin – against Aunt Molly, Cousin Nellie, Cousin Frank...

Out of all his extended family, it was Frank Witton's fate which weighed most heavily on Phil's mind. Arume propaganda proclaimed that this world's new masters would liberate its peoples from the shackles of patriarchy and prejudice... But the moment there was T&A at stake, they proved themselves a viciously phobic bunch. The young bartender's only crime was to catch the roving eye of an off-duty garrison commander, but for that he was thrown into the reeducation camp at Coffs Harbour. 'Frances Witton' emerged broken and servile sixteen months later, cured of her inconvenient identity disorder and reshaped into the ideal mate for her new mistress.

Phil and Errol were in Tarcoola by the time the news reached them, guerillas fully employed in fighting the occupation as it encroached inland from the urban coastal strongholds. To think how easy they'd had it back then, when the Arume were reluctant to pursue them into the bush! One only needed a swift horse, a stout Lithgow and a box of POF .303 to raise hell in the enemy's forward outposts. The old rules of engagement were simpler as well, commonsense stuff about not shooting at mums or kids, minimizing collateral damage, and none of this _indirect threat assessment_ or _permissible non-combatant interdiction_ bollocks.

Strategic self-restraint paid off pretty well for a while – well enough that sympathizers among the subjugated would leave out supplies in easily reached places, occasionally slipping in reports of Arume troop movement and the like. Sometimes even the alien settlers let the raiders pass unopposed, so long as they knew their own lives weren't being threatened. Sadly this mutual pragmatism was not appreciated by the admirals on high, whose only experience of the insurgency down under was a stream of casualty lists gushing across their desks. First the invaders tried to conceal soldiers among the farmers and ranchers, and when that didn't work they substituted gosta...

"Ah..!"

Filatov had not only good bedside manners, but also knees of steel. "I'm sorry, little one," he murmured reassuringly, in exactly the same position he'd taken before Phil went out to confront Nowak. "I will be more careful."

Something nudged Phil's arm. "Cuppa?"

"Oh... Yeah, thanks." It took some work to disentangle the battered sheet-metal mug from the rest of the mismatched mess kit. Errol took it, poured a measure of ersatz tea, and replaced the kettle atop the stove. "Thanks," Phil repeated absently, his eyes still on Filatov, Marjatta and Nikka.

_Why do they do it?_

Phil saw nothing wrong with honoring those who had the courage, the _strength_, to sacrifice themselves for the sake of the greater good... But the Arume – to grow hundreds of thousands of clones and program them with the full template of their makers' culture, doing it for the sole and explicit purpose of scattering these feeling, thinking beings over the heads of their enemies, condemning them to a brief glimpse of life and then mandated annihilation – all this for an ideal the Arume themselves could never live up to if it were their own flesh and blood they were throwing away...

_Why the fuck do they do it?_

He'd asked that question so many times over the last ten-odd years, putting it to every Arume prisoner who crossed his path. Most of them looked away, or spat, or cursed. The ones who did answer always said the same thing: _forime can't understand._

"Someone's at the door, Phil."

"Eh?" Listening for a moment, he heard the faint _rat-tat-tat_ as it came again. "If it's Nowak, I'll _murder_ 'im."

"He wouldn't knock," Marjatta pointed out. "Ask for the password."

"Yeah, yeah... Wot's the word, mate?"

"Bird is the word," the woman outside replied. "May I come in?"

Phil relaxed out of his fling-tea-at-intruder stance. "Sure you can."

The door was swung aside with none of the violence done upon it prior. "Hello, everyone."

"G'day, Liz." Errol raised the spoon with which he had been stirring the stew in the decommissioned ammo can beside the kettle. "Stand back, the tucker fucker's knockin' up some bubble an' squeak."

"Smells good," the visitor remarked, carefully removing her woolen headwear. She called herself Elizabeth Chen, and the only things Phil knew for certain about her were that her given identity was bogus and that she was a professional spook. Her features were Asian, like Marjatta's, and she was the icy sniper's only confidant outside the unit.

Phil set his untouched tea on the nearest shelf and went back to the stove. "So wot's up?"

"Fifth Company had contact with the enemy at the Chaykovskoye line," Chen sighed. "They're badly under-strength and need a rest. Do you think you could stand in for them on third watch tonight?"

"'Course we can," said Errol. "Raise yer 'and if you've got a motorbike loicense, chums!"

The others affirmed their willingness without hesitation, a sight which made Phil's insides warm with pride. For sticking it to The Woman, this little band came second to _none._ "I'll lead the watch," he offered. "Eat up whoile you can, mates. Don't count on getting more 'n a dingo's breakfast after this!"

"Hear, hear!" Errol removed the stew can from the stove. "Present plates!"

"...Rol."

"Quiet!" Filatov commanded, hushing the fighters in an instant. "What was that, little one?"

"Er-rol." Nikka stumbled over the word, trying to pronounce it like an Arume name. "Good... person."

"Yes." Marjatta started to caress the gosta's hair once more. "Yes, he is."

* * *

_Fort Ullsten  
Umeå, Sweden  
Present day_

"Nikka, I'm back."

The retrofitted deadbolt was withdrawn with a dull scrape. "Welcome back," Nikka intoned, opening the door. "Elizabeth Chen is here."

Chen rose from her place on the bottom of the double bunk, there being nowhere else to sit. Her black hair was starting to show streaks of premature gray. "Hello, Phil."

Nikka stood aside impassively as Phil limped into the narrow room, formerly a closet of some kind. "It's been a whoile," he remarked, sliding a long, cloth-wrapped bundle off his shoulder and laying it atop the hardwood chest wedged in the corner. "You just get 'ere?"

The woman nodded and sat down again. "How's your leg?"

"Hurts." Phil removed his submachine gun from where it hung, per orders, under his arm, and laid it across his pillow. "But I can walk, that's wot matters."

"Nikka said you went to the orphanage. Did you find what you wanted?"

They called it 'the orphanage' because 'scrapyard' was a little too depressing, a word that implied there was no future for the things which lay within. The orphanage was a desolate row of sheds, hidden behind the fortress armory, where all the unusable equipment was stored, everything from small arms to tanks: wrecks damaged beyond repair awaiting transfer to the smelter, non-standard models grounded by lack of replacement parts, and leftovers from units already stripped for spares. Phil had gone over there in search of something to replace the battle rifle he'd turned in when he left Finland – something that wasn't government property, that he could tailor to his style.

"Yeah," he said, sitting beside his guest, "I reckon I did... So, wot's up?"

"Can we talk privately?"

Phil honestly wasn't surprised by the request, not after what happened in Rovaniemi. Nor was Nikka. "I'll go to the mess," she announced, picking up her white outer tunic. The click of the latch was as soft as the gosta's voice, and the footfalls of her little boots faded fast.

"Bless 'er heart, she's a good kid." Phil flexed his recuperating limb and grimaced. "It's been really rough for her, losing Marjatta an' all."

That was putting it mildly. Nikka had met and overcome every hardship with a resolute stoicism, from Errol's death to the old squad's disbanding, from the bitter cold outside to the caustic tongues of her so-called betters. Now Marjatta was no more, Phil and Nikka had been uprooted from their uncomfortable but familiar environment, and recently the girl had suffered menstrual cramps on top of everything else. She never complained, never slackened and never gave up, but the pain slipped through the cracks in her facade sometimes, when she thought no one was looking.

"Me too," Chen confided. "I know it's been almost a month, but I – there's a part of me that still doesn't want to believe she's gone. A little longer and I would have been able to see her..."

"Yeah," Phil agreed solemnly. "Gone without a trace, just loike that." His gut clenched as he remembered the vicious evening when everything unraveled. "Did the new guy make it? I never 'eard."

"MacFarlane?" Her tone shifted to one of pity. "The damage to his spine couldn't be repaired. He'll probably be given a desk assignment."

"Bloody unfair. He wos good, they were all good... Erkki, Yelena..."

"It _is_ unfair," Chen concurred, "but there's nothing we can do about that now... Phil, do you know why you were transferred here?"

The sharpshooter shrugged. "Figured it wos fer me bad behavior."

"No." The spook stood again without warning, as if she were an animal pacing about in its cage. "I know this is sudden, but I have a job for you. It's highly important and I think you're uniquely qualified for it."

A job, just like that? At best Phil had assumed he would be sent back to the front once his leg was healed, shipped across the narrow neck of the gulf to the Vaasa pocket so that he could do in the ravaged fields of Ostrobothnia what he'd done so well in Lapland's wilderness. Wouldn't be a bad assignment, really: the no-man's land had been quiet for the last couple of weeks, with Arume high command distracted by a joint offensive from the Siberian free army and Chinese resistance. "Wot kind of job?"

"Training personnel for a mission, probably not long, but with very specific needs." She paused, gauging his reaction.

Phil played it noncommittal. "Go on."

"We need fifty men to be fitted out as Gurkhas of the Indian Army, circa nineteen-twenty. Absolute accuracy isn't required, but the general impression should be correct."

Now _that_ was something novel. "Wot's it for, some kind of costume parade?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"Hum." The skin of the wounded leg was starting to itch under its bandage, but he didn't dare scratch it. "Why me? Not really an expert on that stuff..."

"We've recruited some Gurkhas from the British corps," Chen replied, "and we have other soldiers who can look the part... What we need is your experience. You fought in Australia and India using the same equipment they'll be carrying."

_How does she figure that?_ wondered Phil. They hardly needed him to show them how to wear khakis and slouch hats, so... _Wait one bloody minute._ "Liz, they're not gonna be _shooting_ whoile in costume..?"

"They are." Chen crossed her arms. "You won't need to worry about when and where."

The ceiling light dimmed and flickered as an additional load was switched in somewhere along its host circuit, giving the room's atmosphere a contrived ominousness. "I got some other questions before I agree to anything."

"Yes?"

Phil picked up the war-worn Shpagin, Marjatta's final gift to Mickey MacFarlane, and laid it across his knees. "That gunship attack wasn't random," he said bluntly. "They were after us, _only_ us, and the crew weren't even told wot for."

The light went out completely, and in the darkness Phil recalled the pivotal scene with faultless fidelity: the Arume survivor huddled in the corner of the lurching BTR's hull, babbling in a blind panic while the others raced to save Mickey. The truth came out mixed up with a jumble of familiar pleas and excuses, just-following-orders and think-of-my-family, the same old story over and over again...

"Very strange," said Chen passively. "Even for the aliens."

"Don't act so bloody clever!" Light returned, letting the man give his visitor a frustrated glare. "I _knew_ them, Chen... Aimo, Erkki, Yelena – I know where they came from, 'ow they served, and _none_ of 'em were big enough fer the Arume to take that risk. Mickey wos good, but he wasn't worth it either. Marjatta, though... Marjatta's a mystery, ain't she? She came from the east, she 'ad few friends, an' she loiked killin' aliens. Past that, 'oo knows?" Phil got up, pushing off with his hand to lessen the strain on his leg. "But you _do_ know, don't you?" he continued venomously. "You came 'ere together and you knew her better 'n any – "

Elizabeth raised her hands in placation. "Phil, please don't do this. I understand you're upset, so am I, but speculation and accusation won't bring Marjatta back." Sensing that her welcome was wearing out, she began edging towards the door. "Listen, I'll be in Fort Ullsten for another couple of days. If you do want the assignment, drop me a note."

The poorly camouflaged evasiveness inspired no enthusiasm. "I'll think about it."

"I'd really appreciate it... Tell Nikka I'm sorry I couldn't stay."

She stepped out, as quietly as the gosta before her, and Phil slumped back onto the squeaking, creaking mattress in a cloud of pent-up malcontent. Chen was hiding something, he was certain about that, but he didn't have enough evidence to work out the what and why...

He was still brooding over it when Nikka came back, carrying a pair of small packages wrapped in paper. "The Russians are celebrating their Victory Day," she announced, giving one to Phil. "They shared these with me."

"That wos noice of 'em."

"Yes." Nikka sat at the other end of the bunk. "Pauline is dead."

Living with this girl for two years had thoroughly inoculated Phil against being shocked by her candid statements. "Pauline," he echoed, visualizing a shy gosta with a lisp who worked in the fort's mess hall. "Wot 'appened?"

"They said she hung herself. I saw them take away her body."

Nikka didn't elaborate, and Phil didn't ask. For the gosta, deaths among their own kind were an especially private matter: they handled all the funeral arrangements themselves, and outsiders were rarely allowed. Not that it mattered, because cruel experience had shown Phil that few would deign to participate anyway.

_Bloody ingrates, all of them._

He glanced at her as she ate in silence. Nikka had always worn her hair long on the left as a curtain to hide her scars, and from where he sat her face was fully veiled by the white screen. Phil decided to give her space and not bring up his mistrust of Chen just yet. Better to sleep on that and have another go at it in the morning...

* * *

_Tunk-tunk-tunk-tunk-tunk!_

Phil rolled over and instinctively reached for the PPSh. It wasn't there.

_Tunk-tunk-tunk-tunk-tunk-tunk-tunk!_

"Ol'roight," he groaned, sitting up and pulling the stainless .357 out from under his lumped-up pillow, "'m comin'..."

Phil's sense of alarm didn't kick in until after he switched on the light. The submachine gun was gone completely, ditto its magazine pouches and the Swedish naval bayonet which belonged with it. So was Nikka, the empty top bunk made up with her characteristic neatness. Casting about the cramped room, the Australian also noticed that the bundle on the chest had been tampered with. He made a rapid inspection, finding his new objet de guerre – a Steyr-Mannlicher which survived two world wars only to fall out of a truck and have its muzzle run over – unmolested. Being useless without a new barrel, the thief-apparent had passed it by.

_Tunktunktunktunk –_

"I'm _coming,_ damn you!" Gritting his teeth, Phil about-faced and strode to the door. He kept his guard up as he opened it, holding the pistol close to himself _just_ in case there was an enemy on the other side.

The uniformed man in the hallway was no enemy. "Phillip Darwin? Lieutenant Berglund, Umeå Guards. You are in possession of a gosta orderly?"

They _always_ did that, always assumed that Nikka was somehow the Aussie's property. "I 'ave a _companion_ 'oo is a gosta," he grumbled, holstering the Grizzly. "Why?"

"She has killed four men." Berglund took precisely two steps backward. "Please follow me."

* * *

The fortress wasn't formally on alert, but there was a palpable tension in the air as the ell-tee led Phil through the winding tunnels and trenches which snaked across the former university grounds. They emerged into one of the regular barracks, a dormitory shored up to withstand moderate bombardment. Phil knew they'd arrived when he saw the group in the hallway, clustered around a man whose whiskers and shoulder boards alone placed him high in the pecking order. "Aha!" Whiskers & Shoulder Boards barked. "Here's the man we want!"

_Fuck me,_ thought Phil. _They've even got pommie brass here._

"Have a look," the English officer invited, gesturing towards the open doorway on the left. "Nothing has been disturbed."

After squinting at the pips and crowns for a moment, Phil concluded that he faced an irate lieutenant colonel. "Roight away, _sir,"_ he said flatly. _If this is another dog-and-pony show, I'm pissing right off._

These were luxury quarters, compared to his cubbyhole. There were two beds placed against each long wall, a dead man in every one. All of them displayed wounds to both the chest and the head. One victim was huddled with his arm dangling over the side, slain while reaching for his rifle. The PPSh sat upright in the center of the floor with the bayonet affixed, its long blade blackened by carbon fouling. Errol's old Husqvarna Browning lay nearby, slide locked back on an empty magazine. Spent casings were scattered all around.

Whiskers & Shoulder Boards sneaked up from the rear as Phil was assessing the damage. "Quite thorough, your little girl. A burst to disable each man, shots in the head to dispatch them... Where did she learn to do that?"

"No idea," Phil replied evenly, picking up the Browning. "Where's Nikka?"

"In custody, where she _belongs."_

The enduring Darwin retrieved his third-hand Shpagin next, deliberately keeping his back turned. "She's never been violent," he mused. "I wonder wot drove 'er to it."

He'd gauged Whiskers & Shoulder Boards for the same breed of REMF as the late but not lamented Captain Nowak, only with less bluster and more sleaze, but he was proven partly wrong when the man suddenly exploded: "Don't play games with me, Darwin! Four men have been _murdered_ in their beds! Heroes! By _your_ god-damned gosta!"

"Heroes?" Phil gingerly looked over what was left of the fatalities' faces. "'Oo were they?"

_"What?_ Good god, man, have you never heard of Tore Olsen? Ylli Kolkka? Andersen and Anderson?"

Time for a dramatic shrug. "I've 'eard of an Olsen. Shat 'is pants at Kouvola."

Whiskers & Shoulder Boards did not react positively. "Would you rather face a tribunal?" he threatened. "I'll have you hauled up before one if you don't stop this _tomfoolery_ and answer me straight! Who taught Nikka Della... Dilly... _Who made her a killer?"_

To Phil it seemed perfectly plausible that Nikka learned by simple observation, having had ample opportunity to watch her surrogate family engage in cleaning, inspection and practice, but he knew that idea wouldn't satisfy the inquisition. They wanted to roll this up and stuff it in the closet, and for that they needed a scapegoat. "I s'pose it wos Marjatta..."

"A friend of yours, then? Come on, out with it!"

"Marjatta Tikkanen... Canny scout, crack shot, dinkum comrade." Phil waited a beat and then added, "MIA in Rovaniemi, twelfth of April."

The credential-drop might not shut up Whiskers & Shoulder Boards – and having devised that wonderful moniker, Phil saw no reason to actually look at his antagonist's name tag – but it ought to win favor with the spectators. Rovaniemi was the tip of the finger, where the enemy's bullish advance through the center of Finland had finally been pummeled to a bloody halt. If being a part of that didn't entitle some respect, what did?

"Meaning there's nobody for us to question," the Briton rumbled. "How convenient." He moved closer, coming near enough for his breath to fall on Phil's back. "But _you_ still have serious disciplinary infractions to answer for, Darwin... Total disregard for soldierly conduct, unauthorized modifying of weapons, letting that... that _basket case_ run loose – "

_Oh no you fucking don't!_

Phil turned around so suddenly that Whiskers & Shoulder Boards very nearly became just Shoulder Boards. "For the record, _sir,_ there are no parade grounds in Rovaniemi. Further, this is a captured weapon registered to myself and modified according to Foreign Volunteer standards. Lastly, I'll thank you not to insinuate that our little girl is a psychopath." Striking while the shock was fresh, he ducked past the obstreperous walrus and out the door. "Lieutenant, where is Nikka now?"

Berglund was caught off guard no less than the others when Phil suddenly dropped his habitually broad and comically exaggerated accent and began speaking in a voice which was clear, authoritative and had only a mild touch of the antipodean. "Er, fifth door on the left..."

"Darwin! Where the _devil_ do you think you're going?"

"Thought I'd pop down to the Q-store an' beg some sangers," Phil shot back, putting on speed. "Anyone want chokkie?"

The larrikin's mask was back in place, but behind it the ANZAC spirit seethed. That half-baked half-colonel was determined to rake Phil _and_ the reputation of the fo-vo corps over the coals. Phil had seen the attempted entrapment coming from a klick away, but the depths to which the shoddy excuse for an officer was willing to sink infuriated him. That bit about unauthorized modding was especially rich, since all he'd done was weld a bayonet lug, an unused Carl Gustafs carbine nosecap cut to size, onto the underside of the submachine gun's barrel shroud...

He made a sharp turn at the designated door and rammed it open without stopping to knock. Inside this other bedroom was a scene from a thousand adventure novels: Nikka tied to a chair in the center, blood oozing from the corner of her mouth, while a disheveled young soldier stood guard. The ammo she'd taken was heaped on the chest of drawers at the head of the room, between the barred and blacked out windows. It _was_ a dog-and-pony show after all, and Whiskers & Shoulder Boards was breaking at least two regulations by keeping the prisoner here when he should have sent her to the stockade.

_Thought he could whip her out as a punchline, the bastard!_

The startled guard weakly brandished his shotgun. "What are you doing?" he stammered, his accent betraying a childhood in the shadow of the post-Soviet world. "You're not allowed..!"

Courage failed him as Phil noticed the streak of white smeared on his sleeve and made a frontal invasion of his personal space. "Get out."

"I... I have orders – "

_"GEDDOWT!"_

The guard fled with a whimper, leaving Phil and Nikka alone for the moment. "Why'd you kill those men?" Phil asked, pulling the empty drum from the PPSh and adding it to the pile.

"Kolkka and Olsen killed Pauline. The others helped move the body."

"It wasn't suicide? You're sure?"

Nikka shook her head emphatically. "I saw bruises on her neck – finger marks, not from a cord."

"'Ow d'you know 'oo did it?"

"We knew it was Kolkka and Olsen by the scents on the body. There was semen in her mouth and – "

"Wait," Phil interrupted, "go back fer a second. 'Oo else knew about this?"

"All of us know," the girl replied. "All of us in the fortress. By tomorrow night all the gosta in Umeå will know as well." A thousand adventure novels would run those lines as a sinister hook for a plot twist or a profitable sequel, but she spoke them with no malice or menace of any kind. "Anderson and Andersen were seen coming away after placing the body. I also saw Olsen loitering close by when Pauline was carried out."

Phil glanced towards the door and saw Berglund, the Russian kid and several others watching from the hallway. "Did you tell that lot?" he prompted.

Nikka nodded. "They called me a liar and hit me."

"Wonderful," the ex-digger muttered. "And Brigadier Smith-Smythe-Smith back there serves me tea 'n' sticky buns."

"If you mean Lieutenant Colonel Philpott, that is understandable. Kolkka and Andersen were the most highly decorated men in his battalion. Olsen and Anderson were also well regarded... You did not know this?"

"Nope." Phil threw a dirty look at the onlookers. "Reckon they were too busy coverin' their own arses to tell me... Go on," he added, "quit standin' around wi' yer thumbs up yer bums an' go get the em-pees so we can 'ave a proper investigation."

"Are you mad?" challenged one of the soldiers hidden at the back. "Why are you trusting that half-face after what she's done?"

"I'm very mad," Phil retorted, doing the accent switch again, "but Nikka's been with me since we gave up Kaliningrad and she's never lied to me once. Now where's that pommie gone off to?"

"He's not your problem any more."

Suddenly, Elizabeth Chen. _Where the hell did _she_ come from?_

"What are you men standing around for? If you're on duty, get back to your posts. If you're not, go to bed."

_And lo, the crowd did disperse and go unto their nightly places, amen._

"Are you all right?"

"I am fine," Nikka declared, "although my cheek hurts."

"Thank goodness," Chen breathed, shutting the door. "Phil, you haven't stabbed anyone, have you?"

Phil watched warily as she approached the bound girl with none of the others' trepidation and revulsion. "No."

"You haven't _threatened_ to stab anyone... have you?"

"Not yet." Phil returned to the chest, swinging the PPSh up and laying it against his shoulder. "Don't tell me you were in on this."

"I had nothing to do with it." Chen circled around to the back of the chair, withdrawing a pocketknife. "Nikka, hold still. I'm going to cut the ropes... If you're wondering why I arrived so quickly, some gosta heard the disturbance and came to get me." She patted Nikka's head affectionately. "You have some very loyal friends."

"Good thing _somebody_ around here does." The Australian reloaded his burp gun, set it aside and picked up a Browning magazine. "How much do you know?"

"Two men were accused of rape and murder, two more accused of aiding them, all dead before they could be questioned." A length of cord dropped to the floor, its severed ends slightly frayed. "Nikka, why didn't you _tell_ someone about this?"

"It would not have made a difference." The alien's voice cooled as she pulled her arms free. "Their friends would defend them whether they were alive or not. At least they cannot hurt anyone else when they are dead." She inspected her wrists and began to rub them. "What will happen to me now?"

"I've arranged to have you placed in the custody of Directorate Security for the time being," Chen explained. "It's for your own safety, Nikka. I know you believe you did the right thing, but the men won't see it that way."

"You don't say," Phil interjected sarcastically. "It's our word against the light-colonel's unless we can get hard evidence off the bodies." He emphasized the point by slamming the magazine upwards into the Husqvarna's butt. "And a man who can make that rank while being an utter blobhead has got to have friends in high places."

"I'll see to the evidence," the spook assured him. "Just stay out of danger, all right?"

"Don't worry about me." The slide ran forwards into battery with a sharp _shachak._ "Worry about what's going to happen to all the other gosta once word gets out."

"I know," Chen sighed. "It's distasteful, but if you'll settle for a small win then I think we can turn Philpott's scheme against him. It's not hard to see what he's after, is it? You're an outsider with a reputation for trouble and Nikka is much more independent than the gosta here. He wants to play the martyr card for his dead soldiers and blame everything on your presumed negligence in controlling her, isn't that right?"

"Sure looks that way to me," Phil admitted. "What are you thinking?"

"What Philpott probably wants is for Nikka to be executed and you to be packed off to the front. He's trying to preserve the comfortable status quo in his own domain, so he'll want it done quietly, without anybody asking awkward questions." A calculating gleam appeared in her eyes. "Suppose I have both of you transferred away from here, to give him the illusion of victory. Once you're gone he won't need to threaten you or make reprisals, and if he does we'll still have the proof of his own subordinates' crimes... How about it?" she finished, facing Nikka. "Is that acceptable?"

Nikka rose slowly. "I would prefer that the truth about Pauline's death be known," she said. "But if this way will protect the others from being punished for what I have done, it is acceptable."

"I'm glad you understand." Chen raised her voice. "Come in."

Phil took the Shpagin and surreptitiously cocked it, keeping his guard up as four members of the Free European Joint Intelligence Directorate's internal security force entered, identified by their identical gray uniforms and balaclavas. _Nice pals you've got, Liz._

"Please escort her back to the office," Chen instructed. "I'll catch up with you shortly."

"Yes, ma'am." The one at the front saluted smartly. "Right away."

Nikka stepped placidly into the middle of the formation. "See you later, Phil."

"Yeah..." Phil locked eyes with the leader of the men to whom he was reluctantly entrusting his companion. "You keep her _safe,_ mate. No accidents."

"Affirmative." The leader flashed a hand signal and his group seemed to flow out of the room, leaving Phil alone with Chen.

"This," the Aussie opined, "has been a really weird night."

"Yes." The woman regarded him thoughtfully for a few seconds. "How do _you_ feel about it? About what she did?"

"Honestly?" Phil contemplated the empty chair as he formed his response. "Am I supposed to feel shocked? Horrified? Do they think I don't care what goes on behind the lines?" He would have spat on the ground, were he not indoors. "Maybe I should be proud that she had it in her, to stand up for her own... That's what it comes down to, isn't it? She did what _I_ should have done in the bloody first place."

"It's what we should all have done," Chen agreed, "instead of looking the other way and letting things come to this."

"I'm done with looking away." Taking a deep breath and a moment to compose himself, Phil swallowed his pride. "When do I start?"

"Start..?"

"Training your Gurkhas. Isn't that what you wanted?"

Chen shook her head. "I don't want you to feel that you owe me for this, Phil. If you're going to take the assignment, take it for Mari's sake."

"Mari?"

"That's right," the other confirmed. "Her real name was Mari. The Arume wanted her dead because she knew the truth about a certain incident, something they've tried to keep secret for more than twenty years."

A low whistle escaped Phil's lips. "No wonder she hated them."

"Not for that," Chen corrected. "She was in love with the commander of one of their ships, who was betrayed and killed by her own people." She waved towards the door, not waiting for a reply. "Get some rest. I'll have your papers ready in the morning... Nikka's too."

"Okay." Phil quickly gathered up the remainder of his errant belongings. "Well... thanks for saving our skins, Liz."

"Yuko."

When Phil turned back, he saw her looking at him with the same deep sorrow he no longer allowed himself to feel. "Yuko," she repeated. "I was Mari's teacher... and her protector. Good night, Phil."


	41. Engines of Genocide

(A belated happy birthday to Ghost-itS, my long suffering sounding board.)_  
_

_Part 35: Engines of Genocide_

Azanael bobbed back to consciousness like a piece of flotsam torn away from a sinking ship, left drifting in a sea of agony. She might have quickly been submerged again had Mari's voice not come to her through the fog blanketing her mind: "You awake?"

"Uhhhk..."

"Keep quiet, we're not out of danger."

The Arume opened her eyes, but saw nothing. "Where am I?" she whispered hoarsely.

"In a tailor's workshop on the back side of the Bund, just off Suzhou Creek. It's a little after dark." There was an airy noise, somewhere between a sigh and a yawn. "Looks like the Koreans really roughed you up. How are you feeling?"

Azanael's wrists and ankles still burned where the binding ropes had chafed them. Her arms and legs throbbed in zigzagging bars, marking the exact points where the rubber hose slammed into her defenseless flesh again and again. "...Hurt," she groaned at last. "Hurt everywhere."

"Anything broken?"

"I... don't think so."

"Has your sight come back at all?"

"No." No, but fortunately her ears were in order. Azanael turned her head to the left, as Mari seemed to be on the left side of... whatever this hard thing that she lay upon was. "How did you find me?"

"By killing enough of the enemy to make them open negotiations," Mari replied dryly. "Didn't they tell you there was going to be a prisoner exchange?"

"No," Azanael answered numbly. "They never told me anything, just shouted and screamed and – "

"Don't think about it," the other woman interrupted. "Try to rest. We may be here for a while."

Being told not to dwell on her ordeal switched the pilot's thoughts to her current position. "Why aren't we safe?"

"You can thank Schuhart for that. He decided to conduct the swap in person... I went along to make sure he didn't provoke the Koreans." Azanael heard a faint scrape, as if Mari were adjusting her seat. "I'm not sure if it was an ambush or if they were just nervous, but they shot first. Schuhart and I grabbed you in the confusion, but we were cut off by machine gun fire and the rest of the team pulled back without us."

The battered female's pulse quickened in alarm. "We're alone?"

"I think we've shaken off the Koreans for the moment. Now they're jamming our radios instead... The satellite phone still works, so at least the others know we're alive."

"Is Schuhart here?"

"No," said Mari with unveiled exasperation. "He's out _scouting."_

Azanael's forehead wrinkled in a composite of surprise and incredulity. "By himself?"

"There's nobody else." Mari sighed again. "We're to lie low until he comes back... Is there anything I can do for you in the meantime?"

"I, um... I need to use the toilet."

"Sure. Wait a moment, I'll help you up."

A warm hand grasped Azanael's, gently drawing her upward into a sitting position. She followed willingly at first, until the sheet covering her body fell down and bared her shame. "Ah..!"

"Easy." The hands moved to her shoulders, arresting the patient as she feebly tried to squirm away. _"Easy..._ It doesn't matter, Azanael. I've already seen your – seen what they did to you."

The wounded alien acquiesced to that persistent tugging after a few seconds. New flashes of pain ran up her calves and thighs as she cautiously shifted her weight onto her feet, but the first experimental steps confirmed that she could walk. Her weak elation at this accomplishment was pushed aside by a fresh question. "Mari, does the Liaison know what happened?"

"Mm-hm." Azanael's guide moved away as if to pick something up, returned, and took her by the arm. "The bathroom's this way."

For Azanael, the curtness of the reply told all. The Liaison didn't want someone who'd embarrassed them twice in a handful of days, never mind being blinded, beaten and dragged back with nothing to show for her suffering. Renaril had probably signed a transfer command for her already...

* * *

_Sino-Arumic Liaison HQ  
Guangzhou, China  
April 30th, 2016_

"Are you sure it's all right?"

Kang looked behind herself as the sagging shirt bared her shoulders. "Are you having second thoughts?"

"No," Renaril mumbled, averting her eyes while she stepped out of her leotard. No second thoughts, but the clinging apprehension wouldn't go away. "As long as you want it too..."

"My body wants it," Kang remarked with an unexpected touch of humor. "And I did promise you I would set aside time for this."

"Mmf..."

"It's all right if you don't want to." The forime turned around, her unclothed upper figure silhouetted by the table lamp beside the bed. "I can wait."

Renaril shook her head. She _did_ want it – no less than her lover, whose mating scent made her mouth water so – and this time neither of them would blame the nanomachines. She hesitated, hovering indecisively, then remembered the parting words from that last call out of Shanghai: _"You go make her happy, Group Commander. Help her relax, take her mind off us for a while."_

As Kang resumed folding her shirt and went to place it atop the dresser, the Arume padded across the room and pressed up against her back. "I'm sorry about the smell," the elder woman murmured in response. "I should have taken a shower."

"You don't smell bad... just fertile." Renaril put her arms around Kang's waist, clasping her hands below the navel, and nuzzled her back affectionately. "Isn't it amazing, to have a new life growing inside you?"

"Erm..." The incipient mother shivered when her partner's hands began to advance below the belt line. "It's fine to be happy, but you shouldn't get overexcited. We've only just started and there's so much that could go wrong – "

"It won't." Renaril tightened her embrace possessively. "This strong body will definitely keep our child safe." Slender fingers explored briefly, finding a zipper. "Can I do this?"

"Mm..."

Metal rasped against metal as Renaril unfastened the olive trousers, sliding Kang's pants and panties off her hips as one. "You said I took the lead last time, but I can't remember it. Could I... I mean, would you let me try again?"

Her query brought back the good mood. "I would let you, if you can wait a minute longer."

As the disrobed warrior sorted out her remaining garments, Renaril's gaze wandered around the bedroom. It was only subtly different, but she could tell that Kang had made an effort to tidy up since the last time she visited. The books were more organized now, with just a couple left on the desk and only one, a volume with a plain cover entitled _The Motorcycle Diaries_, on the bedside table.

The box springs creaked a little when Kang climbed onto the bed on all fours, presenting to Renaril the curves of her rump and the glistening prize between them while she smoothed out the pillows. Visions of imminent foreplay displaced all else in the alien's mind as she closed the gap, intent on giving her partner a night worth celebrating. She'd start with gentle strokes, work towards the center bit by bit –

Kang finished with the pillows and backed up right as Renaril was reaching out to her: before she knew what was happening, her finger had gone all the way in. Her opposite inhaled sharply, jerking away as if prodded by a glowing poker. "I'm sorry," the Arume stammered. "I didn't mean... Li? Li, what's the matter?"

She received no answer. Kang violently hunched forwards, clutching at the back of her head. As Renaril knelt behind her, rooted in place by shock and fear, the trembling woman broke down in heaving sobs. "Lie bing... Lie bing..!"

Her reaction bewildered as much as horrified Renaril. "I'm sorry," she repeated. "I'm so sorry!"

Even before the words were even fully formed, she understood that Kang couldn't hear her. The panicked fragments of Chinese conveyed no information to her ears, but she did comprehend the pleading tone in those same words. Half a minute passed, maybe a little more, and the sobbing diminished to a pained whimper. In the midst of the lull, Renaril made out a name – _Liang_.

All the color drained from her face. "No... Nonono, Liang is gone! He's dead, he can't hurt you!" Finally spurred to action, she clambered around to the head of the bed. "Li, wake up! You're safe, please wake up! Please..." Renaril sniffled, struggling to hold back tears. "Don't let – _eeeeek!"_

Kang moved like the proverbial fluid lightning. Renaril felt herself snatched up bodily and pushed down onto the mattress. The next thing she knew, her body was being crushed against Kang's, the bigger woman's arms and legs encircling her in a taut, desperate embrace.

"Li – "

A hand curled around the back of Renaril's neck, pressing her face into her partner's chest. Kang's heart pounded against her cheek, air hissing in and out of the solder's mouth in deep, forcefully regulated breaths. Renaril didn't dare move, lying perfectly still even after her troubled lover's grasp relaxed with the coming of merciful sleep.

* * *

"How many others did we lose? Beside Maksim and Anastasiya?"

"A few dead and several wounded. I don't know the exact numbers." Mari lifted her electric lantern to drive back the shadows. A work table loomed out of the darkness, with a couple of low-backed chairs. "Here," she said, placing the lantern atop an idle sewing machine. "Turn around."

Azanael let herself be steered into the seat, but she sat with her legs pressed together and her arms ineffectually covering her front. "Do I have to... stay like this?"

"The Koreans didn't see fit to return your clothes," the sniper replied. "And even though this is a tailor's, there don't seem to be any here." She made an effort to show a reassuring smile, remembering too late that Azanael couldn't read her expression anyway. "Maybe Schuhart will find something for you."

The alien nodded slowly. "What happened after we crashed?"

"A lot." Mari rested an elbow on the table. "We captured the trawler, but we weren't able to save the hostages... Overnight we used the boat to raid the enemy's outposts in the canals and the river. Schuhart and the gosta set up a forward base in a construction site, and we ambushed the Koreans there when they attacked in the morning." To call it an ambush didn't really do the encounter justice, but she saw no need for Azanael to hear the gory details. "They came back with a white flag."

"And then you came to get me."

"Yeah... Oh, Tsubael and Elaqebil came in on the supply boat as we were leaving. Tsubael asked about you right away."

"Tsubael." Azanael frowned. "It must be Elaqebil's doing. Did she recognize you?"

"No."

"Are you going to tell her?"

"I don't know." Mari straightened. "I was glad to see her again, but I..."

"What?"

'Never mind." The Japanese woman stood up, pushing those memories back into their dark crevice in her mind. "Stay here," she went on, picking up the lantern and switching it out of battery-saving mode. "I just had an idea about the clothes."

"You said there weren't any."

"There was a long piece of silk around here somewhere. Schuhart tripped over it when we came in." Sweeping the light in wider and wider arcs, Mari caught a splash of white on the carpet. "Found it."

Azanael perked up a bit. "What can you make?"

"I can't sew you a dress, but..." Mari shook out the cloth, laid it over the table and unsheathed her SVD's bayonet. "Well, I think I can cover the basics."

"Was that a joke?"

"If it makes you feel better." The blade's point easily sliced through the fabric, and the table's finish underneath it. "This should be enough. Stand up, I'll do the bottom first."

"All – all right."

Despite their frequent proximity of late, this was Mari's first chance to really look at the woman to whom she tended. Azanael hadn't changed much since their paths diverged in 1999: while not a trace was left of the vindictive scowl Mari remembered from the first meeting, here was unmistakably the same body, so tall beside the petite builds of Hagino and Tsubael...

"Mari?"

The other's fidgeting shook her out of her reverie. "Sorry," she said, stepping behind Azanael's back. "Feet apart."

"Uh..."

"Hold still." This shouldn't be difficult – Mari had done it plenty of times in Finland, where real underwear was often in as short a supply as anything – but suddenly she found the duty intensely awkward.

Azanael noticed. "What's wrong?" she demanded with audible unease.

"Nothing – " Mari reached around the front, trying to pick up the silk's loose end. The back of her hand brushed against the blind woman's pubic hair, a perfectly shaped chevron crowning an otherwise smooth mound, and she snapped back her arm with a gasp.

The Arume gasped as well, and tried to pull away. "Mari, stop – "

"Shut up," Mari hissed. "I'm almost _done."_ Screwing up her face, she grabbed a fistful of fabric and bulled through the rest of the steps in one furious charge. The completed loincloth didn't measure up to her best work, once she backed up and inspected it, but it seemed adequate for its task. "Is that too tight?"

"No..."

"Okay." Back to the cutting board. "I'll do the top now."

"You don't have to." When Mari turned, Azanael's face had a pleading look. "If you hate touching me that much, I don't need it."

"You do need it." Mari critically gauged the material left to work with and cut off another length. "You catch a cold from this and Tsubael won't ever let me forget."

"I mean it. I don't want this if doing it hurts you."

"You're not making any sense."

Azanael hung her head. "You don't need to hide it," she whispered. "Anyone would hate me after what I did to you."

Neither the pair's present situation nor their recent run-in with the Butcher of Tallinn were worthy of this despair. "This is about what happened aboard _Blue_..?"

"What else would it be?"

So that was it. To have lived with that on her conscience all these years... Mari could only shake her head in wonder. "You idiot," she said softly. "I forgave you for that a long time ago."

"You... you did?"

If what Azanael craved was absolution, she received it freely. "How could I _not_ forgive you? I remember... I remember how you came back to help Hagino at the end, even though – " Mari broke off there, mindful of more urgent matters. "The important thing is that I don't want you to feel guilty any more," she concluded, moving in with the silk. "Arms out."

The upwelling of sincerity between these long separated outcasts did much to clear the air. Mari worked briskly and without fumbling, running the strip of smooth material under arms and over shoulders to create something like a minimalist halter top. "There," she announced, tying it at the back. "How does that feel?"

"It's good." Azanael sounded a little surprised. "Thank you." With modesty made safe, she gingerly eased herself into her chair. "How long will we wait here?"

"If Schuhart doesn't come back by oh-three-hundred, orders are to head south and try to break out on our own." Mari checked her wristwatch. "But we've got a while left. Try to get comfortable."

"Mm..."

Mari sat as well, putting away her knife and turning down the lantern's brightness. "I'm glad it's you here with me," she confided, "not some stranger."

"Really?"

"It's comforting somehow... I've felt so disoriented these last few weeks. Everything's different in this layer."

Azanael nodded. "It felt strange for me too, to see Arume and forime working together peacefully. Even though it's what I wanted for so long." She clasped her hands in her lap. "It's a good thing to me, but for you... On the plane you said – "

"I haven't forgotten." Mari regarded her knees pensively. "Honestly I'm not sure now. Maybe this _is_ good, maybe this is how Hagino would want it to be... But I can't forget where I came from."

"I wouldn't want you to," the alien told her earnestly. "I wish there were something I could do to help."

"I don't even know what _I_ should do." Dark eyes looked into sightless blue-gray. "I don't know where to start or who to trust."

"Do you think we can trust Schuhart?"

In light of the adventure in Tokyo-2 and the morsels of information Mari had received about her elusive benefactors, it was difficult to answer that question definitively. "I don't think he's ours biggest problem," she hedged.

"I don't mean that. He's... he has connections among Arume. He might be able – "

"I wouldn't count on it." Mari would have liked to encourage Azanael, to tease out what the other woman knew of her employer and Majestic, but it wasn't safe to discuss that when Schuhart might come in at any minute. Instead she sat back and wrinkled her nose at the ceiling panels. "Why didn't the Koreans invade a tropical island or something? We could be sitting on a white beach, catching crabs and eating coconuts..."

"I don't like beaches. The sand gets into everything."

"It would, wouldn't it?" After the hours of silence, Mari found Azanael's willingness to make small talk gratifying. "Where would you rather be?"

The grounded flier shrugged. "Home."

"Sounds nice." Mention of home brought to mind faded, confused memories of a rocky island. "I heard there's nothing left of Kamiokijima... Didn't surprise me at all," Mari admitted. "I guess I could visit it in this layer, but it wouldn't be the same."

"I understand." Azanael raised her legs off the floor and stretched them, pointing her toes with a wince. "Nnnnngh! ...Maybe I should try it."

"Where would you go?"

"My birthplace, in New Zealand."

"New Zealand," Mari echoed, filled with genuine curiosity. "There really _is_ a lot I don't know about you... Are you not allowed to go there on your planet?"

"It's not forbidden, but they don't want me there."

"I'm sorry."

Azanael shook her head emphatically. "Don't be. It's not anything to do with you."

"What happened? I mean, if you don't mind talking about it."

"I don't mind." Unseeing eyes closed in contemplation. "It was a town on the north island, surrounded by farms. My family controlled the shop for repairing machinery... My childhood wasn't unusual, I suppose. I went to school, worked on the harvesters, swam in the pond with my cousins." A faint smile graced her pale lips, telling of nostalgic feelings nearly forgotten. "I didn't want to be a farmer, though. I wanted to be a runner..."

* * *

_("Hastings, New Zealand")  
01.44.2725 ("August 4th, 1984")_

They were talking about her.

Azanael could hear the announcers' voices faintly over the sigh of the breeze, rolling down the broad strip of the running track in front of her. Positioned fourth in a lineup of seven contenders, she was at the literal center of today's event. The three rivals on her left had already gotten their introductions, and now all eyes were on the tall, sullen girl from the north of north. Neither archive videos nor secondhand accounts had prepared her for the enormity of this contest: it was the sheer number of spectators in the stands lining either side of the track, Arume from all over the twin islands braving the heat to come and see it in person, which drove home the occasion's importance.

It sounded as if they liked what they saw, and that was important for her career prospects. In the regular class this event was all about speed and more speed, but in the big girls' category one could win the race and still lose critical points for failing to hold the crowd's favor. The announcers played it up, going over the points of merit shown by each contender with intimate detail. Azanael's competitors were doing their part as well, showing off their physiques with languid stretches and teasing postures.

It was starting to bother her, just a little. In training Azanael had worn a mesh leotard, but once she entered the formal arena, she obeyed pious tradition and competed in the nude. The only foreign objects on her body were a polarized visor covering her eyes, a harness which constrained but did not conceal her firm breasts, and track shoes with sinuous support tongues coiled around her calves. The rest of her skin carried no more than an oily coat of sunscreen. She minded none of that in itself, but she was here to show off her fitness, her prowess as a runner, and yet the commentary seemed to be all about her _other_ assets. Admittedly she felt flattered when they remarked on the pleasingly streamlined appearance of her broad pink areolae, but it pricked her conscience regardless when she heard the announcers debating whether she could breastfeed correctly with inverted nipples...

"You're stiff, rural girl. Don't know what to do?"

The corners of Azanael's mouth contracted. She knew what was expected of her, but she was beginning to understand that those expectations stemmed from an interest more utilitarian than honoring the First Mother. Her eighteen year old figure embodied a classical ideal of Arume womanhood, and all could see by the laser-cut diamond of hair above her sex that she was unclaimed and a virgin. If the others wanted to angle for the prize with allure and not exertion, she could do the same and do it better.

She began to perform her warmup stretches as the announcers wrapped up their exposition on her feminine traits, evidently convinced that she wasn't willing to wiggle her hips for the cameras. Azanael listened attentively now, working the muscles in her gleaming arms and shoulders before progressing down her back. As they were having their final word, she slowly raised her arms, folded them behind her head and sank into a deep squat. A buzz went up as the naked youth presented her genitals to the long benches, spreading her fleshy lips and pushing out the rippled inner petals for the audience's eager scrutiny. While her fellow athletes thought to charm their way to victory with flirting and coquetry, she opted to directly confront the masses through a provocative display of her ripe vulva: flawless, untouched, untouchable.

Azanael lifted her chin and arched her back slightly, aware of a pleasant tension in her emerging nipples as currents of cool air caressed her most intimate place. When she closed her eyes, it felt as though the wind itself were making love to her. She held the pose for a few seconds more and straightened carefully, feeling self-satisfaction in the flexing of her thighs and the tightness of her belly. Leaving the announcers to fumble through their speeches for the girls at her right, she tuned out the world and carried on exercising. Her erect glans would soften and withdraw into its hood well before the introductions were over.

It was a defiant message, but her heart wasn't in it. The erotic offering was just an empty promise, a distraction to let her keep running – running the courses and running away from her responsibilities... Perhaps, on some level, she had already accepted this as a continuation of the same pressure she felt at home. Azanael had rejected all the local girls and the few suitors who'd come calling in the two years and two quarters since she reached the age of consent, and her parents were growing impatient with her sexual indifference. It was all right if she didn't want to commit to a relationship just yet, her mother would say. They could find a good seed donor and entrust their daughter to the professionals. Azanael wouldn't feel a thing after they switched off her brain. Once the little tube was inserted between her legs, the rest would take care of itself when she ovulated.

Their solution did nothing to address the real problem: she was proud and headstrong, and had no enthusiasm for giving herself up to patriotic gravidity so early in her life...

_TZZZZZT!_

A loud, grating buzzer intruded upon Azanael's meditation, signaling the time for the runners to assume their starting positions. The track's reddish-brown lining was soft against her palms, with a springy cushioning layer beneath, but under the charged soles of her shoes it transformed into the rigid high-friction surface that would carry her all the way to the finish line. She curled her toes as the countdown chime started, breathing vigorously to prime her heart.

Ahead of her the track's white lane markers reached out almost to the distant horizon, converging at a terminus just short of the vanishing point...

* * *

"I won," Azanael recounted with an air of vestigial pride. "I won the next race, and the race after that, but I wasn't happy. I realized they weren't letting me run because I was a good runner, they were expecting me to retire like the others."

Mari had listened silently for most of the narrative, but the sudden quiet seemed like a cue. "You were supposed to give them a show, call it quits, go home and make babies."

"That was it, that was exactly it. If I were... if I had a small body, I could have placed in the standard class and run as much as I wanted... I knew I was being selfish, but I didn't want to be a mother, I wanted to wait." The Arume hugged herself, the memories still powerful enough to visibly upset her. "My parents pushed and pushed and I couldn't take it any more. I... I didn't exactly run away..."

After the things she'd heard described thus far, Mari couldn't have blamed Azanael if she _had_ run away. "What did you do?"

"I wanted to be useful somehow, so... I went to Australia, to the far side where the navy had a training center, and joined up. It seemed like a good idea at the time. The recruiters were kind, they let me in even though I had an automatic service exemption."

"For making babies?"

Azanael nodded. "I qualified for the air branch in the induction physicals. Then I met Onomil and..." Her voice quavered. "...And it was _wonderful."_

Those words, which perfectly summed up the brief happiness she herself enjoyed with Hagino, caught Mari off guard in a way that left all the other surprises of the last few days vying for a distant second place.

Her alien companion went quiet again for a minute, recovering her composure. "I know this doesn't excuse what I've done to you, but I wanted you to know..."

"I appreciate it, I really do." The candid memoir had been startlingly informative, and depressing in equal measure. It left Mari with a strong urge to lighten the mood. "I have to admit I never figured you for an exhibitionist, though."

Azanael didn't take it the way she hoped, but she didn't get angry either. "It wasn't like that," she said, gravely serious. "Being able to show my body was supposed to be a privilege, an honor. I was taught that it was something to strive for, earned by excelling." Dejection overcame her once more. "Maybe it was actually like that once... but not for me."

"Sorry." Cutting out comedy left only curiosity to be satisfied. "You said there's a service exemption. What about the naval troops, do they already have children?"

"Yes. Many of them are close to my age when they enlist. It's probably hard to tell just by looking."

"Yeah." Mari cleared her throat. "So, um... are all Arume sports set up like running?"

"You mean, are they all performed naked?"

"Well... yes."

"It depends... The ones that require high fitness usually are, especially formal events like the ice dance. That's similar to your figure skating." Azanael swallowed. "Do you have any water? My mouth feels dry."

"I've got some here." Mari twisted in her seat and unfastened the canteen which hung from her belt. "Have as much as you want," she added, placing the sloshing container into the other woman's hands.

"You're sure that's all right?"

"We'll find more," Mari replied confidently. "Right now you need it more than me." She watched patiently as Azanael fumbled with the metal cap, got it off and downed nearly the entire supply in one pull. "Better?"

"Yes... Thank you."

There was barely a mouthful left when the water came back to Mari, but she decided not to waste even that. "You're welcome," she murmured, spinning the cap onto the canteen's threaded mouth. "I guess it's my turn to tell a story."

The offer was received positively. "I'd like to hear more about your time in Europe."

"You've already heard most of the happy parts," Mari remarked grimly. "Let me think... One day while we were in Helsinki, Phil found this pogo stick – "

A cascading crash-bang-clatter outside the room ended her tale almost before she'd begun it. Mari rolled out of her chair as fighting instincts kicked in, whipping her submachine gun's sling off her shoulder. "Get on the floor," she ordered. "Don't make a sound."

"...Oscar Sierra!"

The sniper exhaled slowly. "Foxtrot Uniform," she answered. "What are you _doing?"_

"I thought I set that last tripwire closer to the floor..." Roland Schuhart looked essentially the same coming in as he had going out, except that there were now more things crammed into his vest pockets. He carried a blue plastic shopping bag in the hand which wasn't curled around the grip of a silenced pistol. "Sorry to take so long. Everything okay here?"

"We're fine," Mari grunted, getting up off the floor. "How does it look outside?"

"Like the set of a zombie flick on the extras' day off."

"That's a strange comparison."

"I have a cruel and unusual affinity for them... You look like hell, Flight Chief. Are you up to some walking?"

"I think so."

"Good." Schuhart held out the bag. "I found a clothing store, but it was all menswear. See what you can do with these."

Mari took it from him. Inside were a few sets apiece of shorts, boxers and t-shirts, and also a pair of sandals with adjustable straps. "What's the situation?"

"Mostly quiet," the arms dealer reported, tucking away his weapon. "Latest intel confirms the Norks moved a lot of civilians onto their rust-buckets in the river, and into the subway tunnels. Might be just as well we didn't sink their boats... The _good_ news is that we finally got solid info on the enemy's radio jammer. It's an autonomous, headless distributed system, portable nodes tied together by microwave links. Beijing had 'em installed in several cities over the last few months before the breakup, probably in case of civil unrest."

"Headless?" Mari repeated. "So we have to find and disable all the components?"

"Hopefully not." Unable to find a free chair, the man sat on the end of the table. "Liaison HQ very kindly shared some files from the PRC archives. It turns out the company which built the system was under investigation for sloppy security practices... Practices like shipping their products with hard-coded administrator passwords. Assuming the jammer has a fixed password, and we know the password, we'll only need to find one node to shut it all down."

"But we don't know whether it has the password or what the password might be?"

"Not yet. Daemon's working on that now."

The shirts were plain affairs in dyed cotton, definitely not shaped with a female bust in mind. Mari picked out a dark green one that would blend in well in the dark. "Arms up," she prompted Azanael. "What's our next move?"

"No point in staying longer than we have to," said Schuhart, "but getting out will be fun. We're in the dead space behind the KPA picket line. The heavy stuff is dug in on the other side of the creek, but we're gonna have to go through the Norks any way we go."

Azanael was able to get the shirt on with minimal help, though Mari's judgment was correct about it being a tight fit. "Do you have some kind of plan," the latter prompted, "or are you still working on that also?"

"Of course I have a plan. The plan is, we hit a Nork outpost, kill everybody, jam _their_ radios and head south before the rest know what's up."

"You're joking."

"Nope. I already found a perfect target and got the parts for the jammer."

"Ergh." Mari found herself trying to speak through clenched teeth as she sorted out a pair of denim shorts. "Where did you find one?"

"At the RadioShack down the street from the clothing store." He looked like he meant it, too. "See, our people back at the base have been listening in on the KPA's traffic. They're using an unencrypted half-duplex setup, but their codeword lexicon is pretty big and we're not learning much even with the translator. I don't think we'll lose out if we disrupt it instead."

"Hum..." Mari slid the shorts over Azanael's feet and up to her knees, then made to help the bruised woman stand up. "Tell us about the target."

"It's a checkpoint to the west, covering a six-way intersection. I went through there last week, going up to check out the Four Banks warehouse. The Koreans have a position covering the road south – eight men, an MG nest, and a technical with a Dushka... That's a pickup truck carrying a heavy machine gun," Schuhart added for Azanael's benefit. "They're wide open from the rear."

"And you think we can take them." Mari cocked her head. "Are we going to... _liberate_ the technical?"

"And anything else that isn't nailed down." Schuhart stood up, his teeth shining when he grinned in the lantern's soft light. "I even found a good spot to watch them from, so we won't be going in blind. We can leave as soon as you're ready."

"Wait," Azanael protested. "About Anastasiya and Maksim – "

"Right now I'm saving my concern for the living. We'll look for the dead after you're safe."

* * *

_Twenty-two minutes later_

"Dammit."

Mari let go of Azanael's hand, a signal for the Arume to stay where she was, and worked her way across the room. This must have been an office space, and the displaced desks, overturned chairs and paper-strewn floor, all green and grainy in the limited view of Mari's head-mounted night vision monocular, suggested that it had been abandoned in a panic.

Schuhart was already kneeling at one of the wide windows, his assault rifle propped against the sill with its long, slotted flash suppressor pointing up. "Another truck came in," he muttered. "Maybe a supply drop."

Mari descended to his level, placing her Sudayev beside the Kalashnikov. "That's the outpost?"

"Yeah... See the technical? The MG is under that arcade to the right and the rest is in the back."

"I see it." After eying the larger vehicle which was parked off to the left, she looked at her boss. "Now what?"

"We'll wait for them to leave, give the sentries some time to get bored, and _nail_ 'em." Schuhart crawled away, righted one of the chairs and pushed it towards Mari. "Get comfy... You too, Chief."

Mari looked out the window once more. When she next checked, Schuhart had placed Azanael into another chair and was rolling her through the detritus of commerce. "Keep your legs up, it's kind of narrow here... There we go." Parking her at Mari's back, he got a seat for himself, picked up the AKMS and laid it across his legs. "Whooo..."

Boredom set in much quicker this time, perhaps because the trio's furtive march through Shanghai's unlit streets had been wholly and utterly uneventful. The Korean supply truck left after a few minutes, but Schuhart stood by his decision to wait longer. Sitting there, idling, not even lying in wait for prey, led Mari's thoughts in dangerous directions...

Finally she couldn't stand it any longer. "Schuhart."

"Hm?"

"Why are we here?"

"That's kind of vague. Who are 'we' and where is 'here'?"

"Azanael. Me. Third layer. _Why?"_

"This really isn't a good – "

_"No._ No more bullshit, no more excuses. I want to know what Majestic is, what it wants from us, and why I should trust you... You and your 'cousin' and your friend Yui."

"Majestic?" Azanael asked sharply. "Mari, do you know about that?"

"A little. What about you?"

"I heard it mentioned just once. The document about Arume that was leaked onto the net, and another document about the Evangelion weapons that was sent to our high command, both came from someone using that name... 'Majestic Seven' and 'Majestic Nine'."

"Majestic Nine." Mari's head swiveled on her shoulders, locking back into Schuhart. "The man you met in Tokyo-Two, the one from Nerv... And you told me Majestic Seven was their agent inside Eto Delo."

Azanael wasn't finished. "There's something else. During the hostage crisis with Benacirael's soldiers, I met some Arume who fought using forime weapons. They already knew Schuhart and his group from another place." Her voice rose in alarm. "What is Majestic?"

"A conspiracy among Arume. They say they want to influence their government's policy in this world, and Eto Delo is a front for them. They brought me here and they want to recruit you, too." Mari glared at Schuhart again. "Isn't that right?"

"Well, you're getting close." Schuhart was still watching the Korean outpost through his own monocular, and spoke as though he were remarking on a child's scavenger hunt. "Anything to add before I grade your homework?"

Talking to Azanael was clearly the more productive course. "I know Keiko is from the future. I saw her memories of... I'm not sure _what_ it was, but it was bad. Something to do with the Evas."

These revelations were not having a good effect on the alien. "They... They're time travelers? How is that possible?"

"I'm not, KK has only done this once, and it's complicated." The dealer made a sympathetic sound. "I did try to warn you, Mari – time travelers suck, stay away from them."

"Are you _ever_ going to stop screwing with us?"

Schuhart turned to face the Japanese woman for the first time since her initial outburst. "I could stop right now, if that's what you want. Are you sure you can live with the consequences?"

"I'd rather live with the consequences than be dragged along never knowing why... Azanael?"

"I also want to know the truth."

"Fine." Schuhart fixed his eye on the enemy of the present. "For the record," he said softly, "I didn't agree with Yui's decision to keep you out of the loop. It was a bad choice coming from someone who's made a lot of bad choices... I can tell you what she told me, and what KK told me, but it's not going to make you feel better."

"We'll take what we can get," Mari retorted. "Hurry up."

"Okay... What we're in now is the third and newest of a series of altered timelines, caused by Majestic's interference. In the original history there was never contemporary contact between the Arume and the third layer, and their conquest of the second layer officially ended about fifteen years from now. The sky eyes decided to control their subjects through a program of forced stagnation, keeping human society exactly as it had been... Life went on like that for the next thousand years."

Thirty seconds in, and Mari's head was beginning to hurt already.

"The Evangelions appeared without warning in the year 3031. We don't have a clear understanding of what happened up to that point, but humanity in the third layer was dominated by a xenophobic templar culture. The Evas ravaged the colonized Earth in a matter of months, then moved on to the Arume homeworld. The sky eyes had gotten fat, lazy – didn't stand a chance. Majestic started out as a desperate alliance between a band of rebels and the crew of one ship that got away... Somehow they found a way to come back, but their leaders, mainly Yui, were flying almost blind. They barely knew their own history and had almost nothing on their enemies. One thing they _did_ know was that the world-destroyers attributed great significance to an event they called 'Third Impact'... You with me so far?"

"Yes," Azanael whispered.

Mari could only nod.

"Right... Our heroes decided their best bet was to jump into the third layer, before Third Impact, and derail or prevent it. Their aim in space-time was pretty good, I'll give them that much... Then they realized what a bunch of fish out of water they were, and we start getting into those bad choices. Bad choice number one: seeking out persons with useful skills or connections and brainwashing them to do the heavy lifting. They _were_ smart enough to start with just three, at least."

"What happened?"

"The first one went insane, slaughtered his handlers and escaped. They sent the other two out to hunt him down and lost the whole batch. Third Impact happened on schedule and the first modified timeline was a total write-off... So Majestic had to do it all over again. The second try got off to a better start. They were able to prevent Third Impact, but their influence accidentally caused contact with the Arume to happen immediately. The Arume of that time – well, they were pretty much the same sky eyes we're dealing with now. They didn't have the resources to invade another planet, and Majestic hoped the presence of the original, less powerful Evas would serve as a deterrent." Schuhart took a breath and let it out in a mournful _pfffffffff_. "There was peace for a time, and then Logan Hunley ruined everything."

"Hunley..." The name was familiar, but Mari couldn't place it.

"You've probably heard of him. He's a senator, used to be one of those fire 'n' brimstone televangelist types. In the last timeline, he got himself elected president on an anti-Arume platform... Deterrence and containment weren't enough for him, oh no, he wanted those fornicating succubi purged from all of God's green Earths. He was cunning, though, cunning enough that he didn't come right out and say it. First he tightened the screws at home until America was halfway to looking like fucking Iran. Then he built up the military and bullied his allies into handing over the Evas one by one... Then the US seized an Arume ship on some pretext and reverse engineered the Emil Force Drive. That was the big break for Hunley's plans."

Azanael spoke up when he paused for air. "They used the Emil Force Drive to attack us?"

"They sure as hell didn't put it on a space shuttle and send it to Mars in the name of science... The big problem with using Evas in mobile warfare was keeping them supplied with power. The first-gen models could only run for a few minutes without being plugged in, I mean literally plugged in, and Nerv's solution cost a mint and had a poor safety record. Either of you seen a movie called _Event Horizon_?"

"No."

"Me neither."

"Oh well... Main thing is, the Emil Force Drive met the power requirements and was a proven, mass-produced technology. Instead of building spaceships, they just slapped EFD knockoffs on all the Evas. The sky eyes were busy putting down an uprising, and when they realized what was coming, they tried to defend themselves with a preemptive strike. It was all the excuse Hunley needed... Did I mention that using the EFD gave the Evas translayer jump capabilities? 'Cause that's important."

Mari opened her nearly depleted canteen and drained it.

"The counter-invasion caught Majestic off guard because Yui and company made another bad choice, decided their work was done and went off to quietly influence Arume policy in the first layer or something. Hunley's legions, and he did call them legions, overran – " Schuhart ducked mid-sentence, pulling in his shoulders. "Heads down," he hissed. "Nork on the street... Oh, come _on."_

"What's wrong?" demanded Azanael.

"It's nothing... Nothing you'd want to see, anyway."

Suddenly Mari regretted not taking advantage of the bathroom at the tailor's before leaving. _If the power and water are out, urinating into a gutter might not be the worst solution._

"Okay, he's going back inside... Total defeat of the Arume military took about ten months and ended with third layer troops occupying both contested planets. In the second layer, 'Logan' became the new most popular name for baby boys... With the overt threat taken care of, Hunley figured he could afford to slow down a bit on the extermination agenda. Maybe he was feeling pressure from the military-industrial complex, all the CEOs and shareholders wanting their backs scratched for underwriting his crusade. He scratched their backs by herding the surviving Arume into concentration camps and letting the corporations exploit their labor and know-how. They rebuilt the second layer until it was like the Sprawl come to life, and every node in the network had a ghetto to hold the sky eyes they needed to keep the plundered tech running."

Mari remembered. "Twenty years," she whispered, reciting the bitter words of the alternate Schuhart. "They went from running the camps to living in them..."

"Yep. That time Majestic didn't give up right away. They held out for a while, hoping enough people would come to their senses to oppose Hunley. Some did, and eventually there was a mass uprising in second layer Europe... It wasn't enough. Majestic finally threw in the towel in 2036."

"And here we are?"

"Here we are. _This_ time they let Third Impact happen, but they tweaked it. No more Evas, and they're keeping tabs on Hunley... Whether it succeeds is up to us grunts now."

"Great." Schuhart's explanation hadn't even touched on Mari's most vital questions, but she wasn't about to press the point when she already felt as though her head had been crammed into a blender. "And if it doesn't, Majestic will just reset the timeline again?"

"Maybe... If it helps at all, this is the first time the Arume haven't managed to kill you. Also, there is no grandfather paradox."

"It doesn't help, but thanks." _Keep talking, make him keep talking._ "Where do you fit into this?"

"Me? I'm just one of those bad choices." The arms dealer rolled his chair back from the window and stood up. "Break's over, back to the war."

* * *

"And _that_ is how we do it." Schuhart's 6P9 supplied punctuation as its truncated slide rammed a cartridge into the chamber. "Get the chief. I'll sort the loot and set up the jammer."

"Right..." Mari doubled back through the ransacked shop behind the arcade, stopping briefly to wipe off her bayonet blade on the back of a dead North Korean's jacket. Azanael was still huddled obediently just inside the back door, right where the others had parked her. "It's done," said Mari wearily, taking her by the hand. "Watch your step."

The last man standing had opened the technical's doors and was doing something in the cab when the women exited the front of the building. He'd already loaded up the Koreans' machine gun and its tripod, along with their bulky field radio. "Almost done here," he reported, accompanied by a noise of ripping masking tape. "Shake down that last couple of bodies, would you?"

"Yeah, yeah." Scanning the arcade's cement floor, Mari identified two kills who hadn't yet been divested of their accessories. "Found anything good?" she asked sarcastically, flipping the first corpse onto its back.

"We got a Type Sixty-Seven, a scoped Mosin and a whole case of seven-six-two Chinese light ball. Could have ourselves a swell party with that... How 'bout you?"

"Type Fifty-Six side folder, Type Fifty-Six with pig-sticker." Nothing the least bit special for anybody who wasn't a weapons maniac like her employer. "I'll put them in the back."

"Please do." There was an incongruous flash of faint music. "Too loud... Too soft... _Hah."_ Schuhart climbed out. "It's ready. I hope those fuckers like the Village People."

Ignoring the non sequitur, Mari guided Azanael around to the right side of the truck and helped her into the passenger seat. The Korean radio was tied down in the middle with a portable CD player fastened on top, and Schuhart had mated the latter's earbuds with the former's microphone. The talk button was taped in the open position. _"That's_ your jammer?"

"Simpler is super." The pickup lurched as the big man climbed over the tailgate. "It's already broadcasting, so let's not dawdle."

"I know that..." Mari laid her Dragunov lengthwise on the dashboard and buckled herself in, then reached across the cab and gave Azanael's shoulder a squeeze of solidarity. The Toyota's keys were already in the ignition and the engine turned over without a fuss.

"We're safe," the Arume mumbled. "We're safe... Everything will be all right..."

"Safe?" Schuhart's voice intruded through the open center panel in the rear window. "Chief, we just walked down a few streets. You'll be _safe_ when you get off the plane in Guangzhou." He grasped the spade grips on the mounted DShK and swung it so the heavy, finned barrel pointed towards the front. "It's the Mogadishu open rally and we're in first place. Onward!"


End file.
